HRO> 
LOAFER 


NELSON    LLOYD 


• 

•) 


7i 


THE 

CHRONIC  LOAFER 

BY 

NELSON    LLOYD 

B 

NEW  YORK 
J.  F.  TAYLOR  &  COMPANY 
1900 

SECOND  EDITION. 


Copyright,  1900, 

By 
J.  F.  TAYLOR  &  COMPANY. 


CONTENTS. 


I.     The  Reunion 5 

II.     The  Spelling  Bee 17 

III.  Absalom  Bunkel 28 

IV.  The  Missus 37 

V,    The  Awfullest  Thing 54 

VI.    The  Wrestling  Match 63 

VII.     The  Tramp's  Romance 74 

VII  I.     Ambition — An  Argument , 80 

IX.     Bumbletree's  Bass-Horn , .     97 

X.    Little  Si  Berrybush 107 

XI.    Cupid  and  a  Mule 126 

XII.     The  Haunted  Store 136 

XIII.  Rivals 149 

XIV.  Buddies 159 

XV.     Joe  Vamer's  Belling 169 

XVI.    The  Sentimental  Tramp 176 

XVII.     Hiram  Gum,  the  Fiddler 183 

XVIII.     The" Good  Un" 193 

XIX.     Breaking  the  Ice 202 


Contents. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XX.     Two  Stay-at-Homes 212 

XXI.     Eben  Huckin's  Conversion 219 

XXII.    A  Piece  in  the  Paper 237 


THE  CHRONIC  LOAFER. 


CHAPTER  I. 

The  Reunion. 

IN  the  center  of  one  of  the  most  picturesque 
valleys  in  the  heart  of  Pennsylvania  lies  the  vil- 
lage and  at  one  end  of  its  single  street  stands  the 
store.  On  the  broad  porch  of  this  homely  and 
ancient  edifice  there  is  a  long  oak  bench,  rough, 
and  hacked  in  countless  places  by  the  knives  of 
many  generations  of  loungers.  From  this  bench, 
looking  northward  across  an  expanse  of  meadows, 
a  view  is  had  of  a  low,  green  ridge,  dotted  here 
and  there  with  white  farm  buildings.  Behind  that 
rise  the  mountains,  along  whose  sides  on  bright 
days  play  the  fanciful  shadows  of  the  clouds. 
Close  by  the  store  is  the  rumbling  mill,  and  be- 
yond it  runs  the  creek,  spanned  by  a  wooden 
bridge  whose  planking  now  and  then  resounds 
with  the  beat  of  horses'  hoofs,  so  that  it  adds 
its  music  to  the  roar  of  the  mill-wheels  and 

5 


6  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

ring  of  the  anvil  in  the  blacksmith  shop  across 
the  stream. 

One  July  day  the  stage  rattled  over  the  bridge, 
past  the  mill  and  drew  up  at  the  store.  The 
G.  A.  R.  Man,  the  only  passenger,  climbed  out  of 
the  lumbering  vehicle,  dragging  after  him  a  shape- 
less, battered  carpet-bag.  He  limped  up  the  steps 
in  the  wake  of  the  driver,  who  was  helping  the 
Storekeeper  with  the  mail-pouch,  and  when  on 
the  porch  stopped  and  nodded  a  greeting  to  the 
men  who  were  sitting  on  the  bench  kicking  their 
heels  together — the  Patriarch,  the  School  Teacher, 
the  Miller,  the  Tinsmith  and  the  Chronic  Loafer. 
The  loungers  gazed  solemnly  at  the  new  arrival ; 
at  his  broad-brimmed,  black  slouch  hat,  which 
though  drawn  down  over  his  left  temple  did  not 
hide  the  end  of  a  band  of  court-plaster ;  at  his 
blue  coat,  two  of  its  brass  buttons  missing ;  at 
his  trousers,  in  which  there  were  several  rents  that 
had  been  clumsily  sewed  together. 

The  silence  was  broken  by  the  School  Teacher, 
who  remarked  with  a  contemptuous  curl  of  the 
nose,  "  So  you've  got  home  from  Gettysburg, 
have  you  ?  From  your  appearance  one  would 
judge  that  you  had  come  from  a  battle  instead  of 
a  reunion." 

"  Huh  !    A  good  un — a  good  un !  " 

All  eyes  were  turned  toward  the  end  of  the 
bench,  where  sat  the  Chronic  Loafer.  He  was  a 
tall,  thin,  loose-jointed  man.  Thick,  untrimmed 


The  Reunion.  7 

locks  of  tawny  hair  fell  from  beneath  his  ragged, 
straw  hat,  framing  a  face  whose  most  prominent 
features  were  a  pair  of  deep-set,  dull  blue  eyes, 
two  sharp,  protruding  cheek-bones  and  a  week's 
growth  of  red  beard.  His  attire  was  simple  in  the 
extreme.  It  consisted  of  a  blue  striped,  hickory 
shirt,  at  the  neck-band  of  which  glistened  a  large, 
white  china  button,  which  buttoned  nothing,  but 
served  solely  as  an  ornament,  since  no  collar  had 
ever  embraced  the  thin,  brown  neck  above  it.  A 
piece  of  heavy  twine  running  over  the  left  shoul- 
der and  down  across  the  chest  supported  a  pair  of 
faded,  brown  overalls,  which  were  adorned  at  the 
right  knee  by  a  large  patch  of  white  cotton.  He 
was  sitting  in  a  heap.  His  head  seemed  to  join 
his  body  somewhere  in  the  region  of  his  heart. 
His  bare  left  foot  rested  on  his  right  knee  and  his 
left  knee  was  encircled  by  his  long  arms. 

"  A  good  un  !  "  he  cried  again. 

Then  he  suddenly  uncoiled  himself,  throwing 
back  his  head  until  it  struck  the  wall  behind  him, 
and  swung  his  legs  wildly  to  and  fro. 

"  Well,  what  air  you  so  tickled  about  now  ?  " 
growled  the  G.  A.  R.  Man. 

"  I  was  jest  a-thinkin'  that  you'd  never  come 
outen  no  battle  lookin'  like  that,"  drawled  the 
Loafer. 

He  nudged  the  Miller  with  his  elbow  and 
winked  at  the  Teacher.  Forthwith  the  three 
broke  into  loud  fits  of  laughter. 


8  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

The  Patriarch  pounded  his  hickory  stick  vigor- 
ously on  the  floor,  pulled  his  heavy  platinum 
rimmed  spectacles  down  to  the  tip  of  his  nose  and 
over  their  tops  gazed  in  stern  disapproval. 

"  Boys,  boys,"  he  said,  "  no  joshing.  It  ain't 
right  to  josh." 

"  True — true,"  said  the  Loafer.  He  had  wrapped 
himself  up  again  and  was  in  repose.  "  My  pap 
allus  use  to  say,  '  A  leetle  joshin'  now  an'  then  is 
relished  be  the  wisest  men — that  is,  ef  they  hain't 
the  fellys  what's  bein'  joshed.'  ' 

The  G.  A.  R.  Man  had  been  leaning  uneasily 
against  a  pillar.  On  this  amicable  speech  from 
his  chief  tormenter,  the  frown  that  had  been  play- 
ing over  his  face  gave  way  to  a  broad  grin,  three 
white  teeth  glistening  in  the  open  space  between 
his  stubby  mustache  and  beard. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  hev  come  home  afore  my 
'scursion  ticket  expired."  He  removed  his  hat 
and  disclosed  a  great  patch  of  plaster  on  his  fore- 
head. "  Ye  see  Gettysburg  was  a  sight  hotter  fer 
me  yesterday  than  in  '63.  But  I've  got  to  the 
eend  o'  my  story." 

"  So  that  same  old  yarn  you've  ben  tellin'  at 
every  camp-fire  sence  the  war  is  finished  at  last. 
That's  a  blessin' !  "  cried  the  Miller. 

"  I  never  knowd  you  was  in  the  war.  I  thot 
you  jest  drawed  a  pension,"  interrupted  the 
Loafer. 

The  veteran  did  not  heed  these  jibes  but  fixed 


The  Reunion.  9 

himself  comfortably  on  the  upturned  end  of  his 
carpet-bag. 

"  Teacher,  I've  never  seen  you  at  any  of  our 
camp-fires,"  he  began.  "  Consekently  the  eend  o' 
my  story  won't  do  you  no  good  'less  you  knows  the 
first  part.  So  I'll  tell  you  'bout  my  experience  at 
the  battle  o'  Gettysburg  an'  then  explain  my 
second  fight  there.  I  was  in  the  war  bespite  the 
insinooations  o'  them  ez  was  settin'  on  that  same 
bench  in  the  day  o'  the  nation's  danger.  I  served 
as  a  corporal  in  the  Two-hundred-and-ninety-fifth 
Pennsylwany  Wolunteers  an'  was  honorable  dis- 
charged in  '63." 

"  Fer  which  discharge  he  gits  his  pension,"  the 
Loafer  ventured. 

"  That  ain't  so.  I  cot  malary  an'  several  other 
complaints  in  the  Wilterness  that  henders  me 
workin'  steady.  It  was  no  wonder,  either,  fer 
our  retchment  was  allus  fightin'.  We  was  knowd 
ez  the  Bloody  Pennsylwany  retchment,  fer  we'd 
ben  in  every  battle  from  Bull  Run  on,  an'  hed 
had  some  wery  desp'rate  engagements.  'Henever 
they  was  any  chargin'  to  be  done,  we  done  it ;  ef 
they  was  a  fylorn  hope,  we  was  on  it ;  ef  they  was 
a  breastwork  to  be  tuk,  we  tuk  it.  You  uns  can 
imagine  that  be  the  eend  o'  two  years  sech  work, 
we  was  pretty  bad  cut  up.  'Hen  the  army  chased 
the  rebels  up  inter  this  state  we  was  with  it,  but 
afore  the  fight  at  Gettysburg  it  was  concided 
that  sence  they  wasn't  many  of  us,  we'd  better  be 


io  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

put  to  guardin"  baggage  wagons.  That  was  a 
kind  o'  work  that  didn't  take  many  men,  but 
required  fighters  in  caset  the  enemy  give  the  boys 
in  front  a  slip  an'  sneaked  een  on  our  rear." 

The  School  Teacher  coughed  learnedly  and 
raised  a  hand  to  indicate  that  he  had  something 
to  say.  Having  secured  the  floor,  he  began : 
"When  Darius  the  First  invaded  Europe  he  had 
so  many  women,  children  and  baggage  wagons  in 
his  train  that " 

"  See  here,"  cried  the  Patriarch,  testily. 
"  Dar'us  was  afore  my  time,  I  allow.  We  don't 
care  two  snaps  o'  a  ram's  tail  'bout  Dar'us.  We 
wants  to  know  'bout  them  bloody  Pennsyl- 
wanians. 

The  pedagogue  shook  his  head  in  condemna- 
tion of  the  ignorance  of  his  companions,  but 
allowed  the  G.  A.  R.  Man  to  proceed. 

"  Durin'  the  finst  day's  engagement  our  retch- 
ment,  with  a  couple  of  others,  an'  the  trains,  was 
'bout  three  mile  ahint  Cemetary  Hill,  but  on  the 
next  mornin'  we  was  ordered  back  twenty  mile. 
It  was  hard  to  hev  to  drive  off  inter  the  country 
'hen  the  boys  was  hevin'  it  hot  bangin'  away  at 
the  enemy,  but  them  was  orders,  an'  a  soldier 
allus  obeys  orders. 

"The  fightin'  begin  airly  that  day.  We  got 
the  wagons  a-goin'  afore  sun-up,  but  it  wasn't 
long  tell  we  could  hear  the  roar  o'  the  guns,  an' 
see  the  smoke  risin'  in  clouds  an'  then  settlin* 


The  Reunion.  n 

down  over  the  country.  We  felt  pretty  blue,  too, 
ez  we  went  trampin'  along,  fer  the  wounded 
an*  stragglers  was  faster  'an  we.  They'd  come 
hobblin'  up  with  bad  news,  sayin'  how  the  boys 
was  bein'  cut  up  along  the  Emmettsburg  road,  an' 
how  we'd  better  move  faster,  ez  the  army  was 
losin'  an'  the  rebels  'ud  soon  be  een  on  us.  Then 
they'd  hobble  away  agin.  Them  wasn't  our  only 
troubles,  either.  The  mules  was  behavin'  mean 
an'  cuttin'  up  capers,  an'  the  wagons  was  breakin' 
down.  Then  we  hed  to  be  continual  watchin'  fer 
them  Confederate  cavalry  we  was  expectin'  was 
a-goin'  to  pounce  down  on  us. 

"  Evenin'  come,  an'  we  lay  to  fer  the  night. 
The  fires  was  started,  an'  the  coffee  set  a-boilin', 
an'  we  had  a  chancet  to  rest  a  while.  The 
wounded  an*  the  stragglers  that  jest  filled  the 
country  kep*  comin'  in  all  the  time,  sometim's 
alone,  sometim's  in  twos  an'  threes,  some  with 
their  arms  tied  up  in  all  sorts  o'  queer  ways,  or 
hobblin'  on  sticks,  or  with  their  heads  bandaged ; 
about  the  miserablest  lot  o'  men  I  ever  see.  The 
noise  of  the  fight  stopped,  an'  everything  was 
quiet  an'  peaceful  like  nawthin'  hed  ben  happen- 
in'.  The  quiet  an'  the  dark  an'  the  fear  we  was 
goin'  to  meet  the  enemy  at  any  minute  made  it 
mighty  onpleasant,  an'  what  with  the  stories 
them  wounded  fellys  give  us,  we  didn't  rest  wery 
easy. 

"  I  went  out  on  the  picket  line  at  ten  o'clock. 


12  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

Seemed  I  hedn't  ben  there  an  hour  tell  I  made 
out  the  dark  figure  of  a  man  comin'  th'oo  the 
fiel's  wery  slow  like.  Me  an'  the  fellys  with  me 
watched  sharp.  Sudden  the  man  stopped,  hesi- 
tated like  an'  sank  down  in  a  heap.  Then  he 
picked  himself  up  an'  come  staggerin'  on.  He 
couldn't  'a'  ben  more'n  fifty  yards  away  'hen  he 
th'owed  up  his  hands  an'  pitched  for'a'd  on  his 
face.  Me  an'  me  buddy  run  out  an'  carried  him 
inter  the  fire.  But  it  wasn't  no  uset.  He  was 
dead. 

"  They  was  a  bullet  wound  in  his  shoulder, 
an'  his  clothes  was  soaked  with  blood  that 
hed  ben  drippin',  drippin'  tell  he  fell  the  last 
time.  I  opened  his  coat,  an'  in  his  pocket  foun' 
a  letter,  stamped,  an'  directed  apparent  to  his 
wife — that  was  all  to  tell  who  he  was.  So  I  went 
back  to  me  post  thinkin*  no  more  of  it  an'  never 
noticin'  that  that  man's  coat  'ud  'a'  fit  two  of 
him. 

"  Mornin'  come,  an'  the  firin'  begin  over  toward 
Gettysburg.  We  could  see  the  smoke  risin'  agin 
an'  hear  the  big  guns  bellerin'  tell  the  ground  be- 
neath our  feet  seemed  to  swing  up  an'  down.  I 
tell  you  uns  that  was  a  grand  scene.  We  was 
awful  excited,  fer  we  knowd  the  first  two  days 
hed  gone  agin  us,  an'  more  an'  more  stragglers 
an*  wounded  come  limpin'  back,  all  with  bad 
news.  I  was  gittin'  nervous,  thinkin'  an'  thinkin' 
over  it,  an'  wishin'  I  was  where  the  fun  was. 


The  Reunion.  13 

Then  I  concided  mebbe  I  wasn't  so  bad  off,  fer  I 
might  'a'  been  killed  like  the  poor  felly  I  seen  the 
night  before,  an'  in  thinkin*  o'  the  man  I  remem- 
bered the  letter  an'  got  it  out.  I  didn't  'tend  to 
open  it,  but  final  I  thot  it  wasn't  safe  to  go  mail- 
in'  letters  'thout  knowin'  jest  what  was  in  'em,  so 
I  read  it. 

"  The  letter  was  wrote  on  a  piece  o'  wrappin' 
paper  in  an  awful  bad  handwrite,  but  'hen  I  got 
th'oo  it  I  set  plumb  down  an'  cried  like  a  chil'. 
It  was  from  John  Parker  to  his  wife  Mary,  livin' 
somewhere  out  in  western  Pennsylwany.  He 
begin  be  mentionin'  how  we  was  on  the  eve  of  a 
big  fight  an'  how  he  'tended  to  do  his  duty  even 
ef  it  come  to  fallin'  at  his  post.  It  was  hard,  he 
sayd,  but  he  knowd  she'd  ruther  hev  no  husban' 
than  a  coward.  He  was  allus  thinkin'  o'  her  an' 
the  baby  he'd  never  seen,  but  felt  satisfaction  in 
knowin'  they  was  well  fixed.  It  was  sorrerful,  he 
continyerd,  that  she  was  like  to  be  a  widdy  so 
young,  an'  he  wasn't  goin'  to  be  mean  about  it. 
He  allus  knowd,  he  sayd,  how  she'd  hed  a  hanker- 
in'  after  young  Silas  Quincy  'fore  she  tuk  him. 
Ef  he  fell,  he  thot  she'd  better  merry  Silas  'hen 
she'd  recovered  from  the  'fects  o'  his  goin'.  He 
ended  up  with  a  lot  o'  last  '  good-bys '  an'  talk 
about  duty  to  his  country. 

"  Right  then  an'  there  I  set  down  an*  wrote 
that  poor  woman  a  few  lines  tellin'  how  I'd  foun' 
the  letter  in  her  dead  husban's  pocket.  I  was 


14  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

goin'  to  quit  at  that,  but  I  concided  it  'ud  be 
nice  to  add  somethin'  consolin',  so  I  told  how 
we'd  foun*  him  on  the  fiel'  o'  battle,  face  to  the 
enemy,  an'  how  his  last  words  was  fer  her  an'  the 
baby.  That  day  we  won  the  fight,  an'  the  next  I 
mailed  Mrs.  Parker  her  letter.  It  seemed  about 
the  plum  blamedest,  saddest  thing  I  ever  hed  to  do 
with." 

"  I've  allus  ben  cur'ous  'bout  that  widdy,  too," 
the  Chronic  Loafer  remarked. 

The  Teacher  cleared  his  throat  and  recited : 

"  Now  night  her  course  began,  and  over  heaven 
Inducing  darkness  grateful  truce  imposed, 
And  silence  on  the  odious  din  of  war ; 
Under  her  cloud " 

"  No  poetry  jist  yet,  Teacher,"  said  the  veteran. 
"  Wait  tell  you  hear  the  sekal  o'  the  story." 

"  Yes,  let's  hev  somethin'  new,"  growled  the 
Miller. 

Having  silenced  the  pedagogue,  the  G.  A.  R. 
Man  resumed  his  narrative. 

"  I  never  heard  no  more  o'  Widdy  Parker  tell 
last  night,  an*  then  it  come  most  sudden.  Our 
retchment  hed  a  reunion  on  the  fiel'  this  year, 
you  know,  an'  on  Monday  I  went  back  to  Gettys- 
burg fer  the  first  time  sence  I  was  honorable  dis- 
charged. The  boys  was  all  there,  what's  left  o' 
'em,  an'  we  jest  hed  a  splendid  time  wisitin'  the 
monyments  an'  talkin'  over  the  days  back  in  '63. 


The  Reunion.  15 

There  was  my  old  tentmate,  Sam  Thomas,  on  one 
leg,  an'  Jim  Luckenbach,  who  was  near  tuk  be 
yaller  janders  afore  Petersburg.  There  was  the 
colonel,  grovved  old  an'  near  blind,  an'  our  captain 
an'  a  hundred  odd  others. 

"  Well,  last  night  we  was  a  lot  of  us  a-settin'  in 
the  hotel  tellin'  stories.  It  come  my  turn  an'  I 
told  about  the  dead  soldier's  letter.  A  big  felly 
in  a  unyform  hed  ben  leanin'  agin  the  bar  watchin* 
us.  'Hen  I  begin  he  pricked  up  his  ears  a  leetle. 
Ez  I  got  furder  an'  furder  he  seemed  to  git  more 
an'  more  interested,  I  noticed.  By  an'  by  I  seen 
he  was  becomin'  red  an'  oneasy,  an'  final  'hen 
I'd  finished  he  walks  acrosst  the  room  to  where 
we  was  settin'  an'  stands  there  starin'  at  me, 
never  sayin'  nawthin'. 

"  A  minute  passed.  I  sais,  sais  I,  '  Well,  com- 
rade, what  air  you  starin'  so  fer  ?  ' 

"  Sais  he,  '  That  letter  was  fer  Mary  Parker  ?  ' 

"  '  True,'  sais  I,  surprised. 

"  '  Dead  sure  ? '  sais  he. 

"  '  Sure,'  sais  I. 

"  Then  he  shakes  his  fist  an'  yells,  '  I've  'tended 
most  every  reunion  here  sence  the  war  hopin' 
to  meet  the  id  jet  that  sent  that  letter  to  my 
wife  an'  wrote  that  foolishness  'bout  findin'  my 
dead  body.  After  twenty-five  years  I've  foun' 


you 


"  He  pulls  off  his  coat.     The  boys  all  jumps 
up. 


1 6  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

"  I,  half  skeert  to  death,  cries,  '  But  you  ain't 
the  dead  man  !  ' 

"  '  Dead,'  he  yells.  '  Never  ben  near  it.  Nor 
did  I  'tend  to  hev  every  blame  fool  in  the  army 
mailin'  my  letters  nuther.  Because  you  finds  a 
man  with  my  coat  on,  that  hain't  no  reason  he's 
me.  I  was  gittin'  to  the  rear  with  orders  ez  lively 
ez  a  cricket  an'  th'owed  off  that  coat  jest  because 
it  was  warm  runnin'.' 

"  'Hen  I  seen  what  I'd  done  I  grabs  his  arm,  I 
was  so  excited,  an'  cries,  '  Did  she  merry  Silas 
Quincy  ? ' 

" '  It  wasn't  your  fault  she  didn't,1  he  sais,  de- 
liberate like,  rollin'  up  his  sleeves.  '  I  got  home 
two  days  after  the  letter  an*  stopped  the  weddin' 
party  on  their  way  to  church.'  " 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  Spelling  Bee. 

THE  Chronic  Loafer  stretched  his  legs  along  the 
counter  and  rested  his  back  comfortably  against  a 
pile  of  calicoes. 

"  I  allus  held,"  he  said,  "  that  they  hain't  no 
sech  things  ez  a  roarinborinallus.  I  know  some 
sais  they  is  'lectric  lights,  but  'hen  I  seen  that  big 
un  last  night  I  sayd  to  my  Missus,  an'  I  hoi'  I'm 
right,  I  sayd  that  it  was  nawthin'  but  the  iron 
furnaces  over  the  mo'ntain.  Fer  s'pose,  ez  the 
Teacher  claims,  they  was  lights  at  the  North  Pole 
• — does  you  uns  believe  we  could  see  'em  all  that 
distance  ?  Well  now  !  " 

He  gazed  impressively  about  the  store.  The 
Patriarch,  the  Miller  and  the  G.  A.  R.  Man  were 
disposed  to  agree  with  him.  The  School  Teacher 
was  sarcastic. 

"  Where  ignorance  is  bliss  'twere  folly  to  be 
wise,"  he  said.  He  tilted  back  on  two  legs  of  his 
chair  and  adjusted  his  thumbs  in  the  armholes  of 
his  waistcoat,  so  that  all  eight  of  his  long  quiver- 

2  17 


1 8  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

ing  fingers  seemed  to  be  pointing  in  scorn  at  the 
man  on  the  counter. 

The  Loafer  rolled  slowly  over  on  one  side  and 
eyed  the  pedagogue. 

"  Ben  readin'  the  almanick  lately,  hain't  ye  ?  " 
he  drawled. 

"  If  you  devoted  less  time  to  the  almanac  and 
more  to  physical  geography,"  retorted  the  Teacher, 
"  you'd  know  that  the  Aurora  Borealis  hain't  a 
light  made  on  terra  firma  but  that  it  is  a  peculiar 
magnetic  condition  of  the  atmosphere.  And  the 
manner  in  which  you  pronounce  it  is  exceedingly 
ludicrous.  It's  not  a  roarinborinallus.  It  is 
spelled  A-u-r-o-r-a  B-o-r-e-a-l-i-s" 

The  Loafer  sat  up,  crossed  his  legs  and  em- 
braced his  knee,  thus  forming  a  natural  fortifica- 
tion behind  which  he  could  collect  his  thoughts 
before  hurling  them  at  his  glib  and  smiling  foe. 
He  gazed  dully  at  his  rival  a  moment ;  then  said 
suddenly,  "  My  pap  was  a  cute  man." 

"  He  hasn't  left  any  living  monument  to  his 
good  sense,"  said  the  Teacher. 

The  Loafer  looked  at  the  Storekeeper,  who  was 
sitting  beneath  him  on  an  empty  egg-crate.  "  Do 
you  mind  how  he  use  to  say  that  Solerman  meant 
'  teacher  '  'hen  he  sayd  '  wine  ' ;  how  Solerman 
meant,  '  Look  not  upon  the  teacher  'hen  he  is 
read,'  fer  a  leetle  learnin'  leaveneth  the  whole 
lump  an*  puffs  him  up  so " 

The  pedagogue's  chair  came  down  on  all  four 


The  Spelling  Bee.  19 

legs  with  a  crash.  His  right  thumb  left  the 
seclusion  of  his  waistcoat,  his  right  arm  shot  out 
straight,  and  a  trembling  forefinger  pointed  at 
the  eyes  that  were  just  visible  over  the  top  of  the 
white-patched  knee. 

"  See  here  !  "  he  shouted.  "  I'm  ready  for  an 
argyment,  but  no  callin'  names.  This  is  no  place 
for  abuse." 

The  Loafer  resumed  his  reclining  attitude  and 
fixed  his  gaze  on  the  dim  recesses  of  the  ceiling. 

"  I  hain't  callin'  no  one  names,"  he  said  slowly, 
"  I  was  jest  tellin'  what  my  pap  use  to  say." 

"  Tut-tut-tut,  boys,"  interrupted  the  Patriarch, 
thumping  the  floor  with  his  stick.  "  Don't  git 
quarrelin'  over  sech  a  leetle  thing  ez  the  meanin' 
o*  a  word.  Mebbe  ye's  both  right." 

The  Tinsmith  had  hitherto  occupied  a  nail  keg 
near  the  stove,  unnoticed.  Now  he  began  to  rub 
his  hands  together  gleefully  and  to  chuckle.  The 
Teacher  was  convinced  that  his  own  discomfiture 
was  the  cause  of  the  other's  mirth. 

"  Well,  what  are  you  so  tickled  about  ?  "  he 
snapped. 

"  Aurory  Borealis.  Perry  Muthersbaugh  spelled 
down  Jawhn  Jimson  on  that  very  word.  Yes,  he 
done  it  on  that  very  word.  My,  but  that  there 
was  a  bee,  Perfessor  !  " 

"  Now  'fore  you  git  grindin'  away,  sence  you've 
got  on  spellin',"  said  the  Chronic  Loafer,  "  I  want 
to  tell  a  good  un " 


20  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

"  Let  him  tell  us  about  Perry  Muthersbaugh," 
said  the  Teacher  in  decisive  tones.  The  title 
"  professor  "  had  had  a  softening  effect,  and  he 
repaid  the  compliment  by  supporting  the  Tin- 
smith's claim  to  the  floor. 

Compelled  to  silence,  the  Chronic  Loafer  closed 
his  eyes  as  though  oblivious  to  all  about  him,  but 
a  hand  stole  to  his  ear  and  formed  a  trumpet 
there  to  aid  his  hearing. 

"  Some  folks  is  nat'ral  spellers  jest  ez  others  is 
nat'ral  musicians,"  began  the  Tinsmith.  "  Agin, 
it's  jest  ez  hard  to  make  a  good  speller  be  edica- 
tion  ez  it  is  to  make  a  good  bass-horn  player,  fer 
a  felly  that  hain't  the  inborn  idee  o'  how  many 
letters  is  needed  to  make  a  word'll  never  spell  no 
better  than  the  man  that  hain't  the  nat'ral  sense 
o'  how  much  wind's  needed  to  make  a  note,  '11  play 
the  bass-horn." 

"  I  cannot  wholly  agree  with  you,"  the  Teacher 
interrupted.  "  Give  a  child  first  words  of  one 
syllable,  then  two ;  drill  him  in  words  ending  in 
t-i-o-n  until " 

"We  won't  discuss  that,  Perfessor.  It  don't 
affect  our  case,  fer  Jawhn  Jimson  was  a  nat'ral 
speller.  You  never  seen  the  like.  Give  him  a 
word  o'  six  or  seven  syllables  an'  he'd  spell  it  out 
like  it  was  on  a  blackboard  right  before  him. 
'Hen  he  was  twenty  he'd  downed  all  the  scholars 
in  Happy  Grove  and  won  about  six  bees.  Then 
he  went  to  Pikestown  Normal  School,  an'  'hen  he 


The  Spelling  Bee.  21 

come  back  you  never  knowd  the  beat.  He  bed 
stedied  Lating  an'  algebray  there,  but  I  guesst  he 
must  also  'a'  spent  considerable  time  a-brushin' 
up  his  spellin',  fer  they  was  only  one  felly  'bout 
these  parts  could  keep  with  him  any  time  at  all. 
He  was  my  frien'  Perry  Muthersbaugh,  who  tot 
up  to  Kishikoquillas. 

"You  uns  mind  the  winter  we  hed  the  big 
blizzard,  'hen  the  snow  covered  all  the  fences  an' 
was  piled  so  high  in  the  roads  that  we  hed  to 
drive  th'oo  the  fiel's.  They  was  a  heap  sight 
goin'  on  that  year — church  sosh'bles,  singin'  school 
an'  spellin'  bees.  Me  an'  Perry  Muthersbaugh 
was  buddies,  an'  not  a  week  passed  'thout  we  went 
some'eres  together.  Fore  I  knowd  it  him  an' 
Jawhn  Jimson  was  keepin'  company  with  Hannah 
Ciders.  She  was  jest  ez  pretty  ez  a  peach,  plump 
an  rosy,  with  the  slickest  nat'ral  hair  an'  teeth 
you  uns  ever  seen.  She  was  fond  o'  edication,  too, 
t  >  'hen  them  teachers  was  after  her  she  couldn't 
make  up  her  min'.  She  favored  both.  Perry 
was  good  lookin'  an'  steady  an'  no  fool.  He'd 
set  all  evenin*  along  side  o'  her  an'  never  say 
nawthin'  much,  but  she  kind  o'  thot  him  good 
company.  It  allus  seemed  to  me  that  Jimson 
was  a  bit  conceity  an'  bigitive,  but  he  was  amusin' 
an'  hed  the  advantage  of  a  normal  school  edication. 
He  kind  o'  dazzled  her.  She  didn't  know  which 
of  'em  to  take,  an'  figured  on  it  tell  well  inter  the 
winter.  Her  color  begin  to  go  an'  she  was  gittin' 


22  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

thin.  Perry  an*  Jawhn  was  near  wild  with  anx- 
iousness  an'  was  continual  quarrelin'.  Then  what 
d'ye  s'pose  they  done  ?  " 

"  It'll  take  a  long  time  fer  'em  to  do  much  the 
way  you  tells  it,"  the  Chronic  Loafer  grumbled. 

"  She  give  out,"  continued  the  Tinsmith,  not 
heeding  the  interruption,  "  that  she'd  take  the 
best  edicated.  That  tickled  Jawhn,  an'  he  blowed 
around  to  his  frien's  how  he  was  goin'  to  send  'em 
invites  to  his  weddin'.  Perry  jest  grit  his  teeth 
an'  sayd  nawthin'  'cept  that  he  was  ready.  Then 
he  got  out  his  spellin'  book  an'  went  to  sawin' 
wood  jest  ez  hard  an'  fast  ez  he  could." 

"That  there  reminds  me  o'  my  pap."  The 
Chronic  Loafer  was  sitting  up  again. 

"  Well,  if  your  pap  was  anything  like  his  son," 
said  the  Teacher,  "  I  guess  he  could  'a'  sawed 
most  of  his  wood  with  a  spellin'  book." 

The  author  of  this  witticism  laughed  long  and 
loud,  having  support  in  the  Miller  and  the  G.  A. 
R.  Man.  The  Patriarch  put  his  hand  under  his 
chin  and  dexterously  turned  his  long  beard  up- 
ward so  that  it  hid  his  face.  In  the  seclusion  thus 
formed  he  had  a  quiet  chuckle  all  to  himself,  for 
he  was  a  politic  old  person  and  loath  to  offend. 

"  Boys,  boys,"  he  said  when  the  mirth  was  sub- 
siding, "  remember  what  the  Scriptur'  sais " 

"  Pap  didn't  git  it  from  the  Scriptur',"  said  the 
Loafer  complacently.  "  He  use  to  give  it  ez  a 
text  tho',  somethin'  like  this,  *  He  that  goeth  at 


The  Spelling  Bee.  23 

the  wood-pile  too  fast  gen 'rally  breaketh  his  saw 
on  the  fust  nail  an'  freezeth  all  winter.'  " 

"  Not  ef  he  gits  the  right  kind  o'  firewood — the 
kind  that  hasn't  no  nails,"  said  the  Miller  hotly. 

"  Huh  !  "  exclaimed  the  Loafer,  and  he  sprawled 
out  upon  the  counter  once  more. 

The  Tinsmith  took  up  the  narrative  again. 

"  It  was  agreed  that  the  two  teachers  'ud  hev  it 
out  at  the  big  spellin'  bee  'tween  their  schools 
the  follyin'  week.  The  night  set  come.  Sech 
a  crowd  ez  gathered  at  the  Happy  Grove  school 
house  !  They  was  sleighin',  an'  fer  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  in  front  o'  the  buildin'  they  was  nawthin' 
but  horses  hitched  to  the  fences.  The  room  was 
decorated  with  greens  an'  lighted  with  ile  lamps 
fer  the  occasion,  an'  was  jest  packed.  All  the 
seats  was  filled  with  girls.  The  men  was  lined 
three  deep  along  the  walls  an'  banked  up  on  top 
of  one  another  at  the  back.  On  one  side  o'  the 
platform,  settin'  on  a  long  bench  under  the  black- 
board, was  the  sixteen  best  scholars  o'  Happy 
Grove  school  led  be  Jawhn  Jimson.  He  was 
smilin'  an'  conferdent,  an'  gazed  longin'  at  Hannah 
Ciders,  who  was  on  one  o'  the  front  seats  an' 
'peared  rather  nervous. 

"  Perry  Muthersbaugh  come  up  to  me  ez  I  was 
standin'  be  the  stove  warmin*  up,  an'  I  whispered 
him  a  few  words  of  encouragement,  tho'  I  felt 
sorry  fer  him.  He  was  a  leetle  excited  but  'lowed 
it  'ud  come  out  all  right.  Then  he  tuk  his  place 


24  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

on  the  other  side  o'  the  platform  with  his  sixteen 
scholars,  an'  the  proceedin's  begin. 

"  Teacher  Long  from  Lemon  township  give  out 
the  words,  while  me  an*  another  felly  kep'  tally. 
The  first  word  was  soupeny.  Perry  missed  it. 
He  spelled  it  s-u-p-e-n-a.  It  jest  made  me  sick  to 
hev  to  mark  down  one  agin  his  side.  Jimson 
tuk  it,  spelled  it  all  right,  an'  commenced  to  smile. 
Muthersbaugh  looked  solemn.  The  next  felly  on 
his  side  spelled  supersedes  correct,  while  the  girl 
beside  Jawhn  missed  superannuation.  Happy 
Grove  and  Kishikoquillas  was  even. 

"  I  tell  you  uns  it  was  most  excitin'  to  see  them 
trained  spellers  battlin*.  They  kep'  it  up  fer  half 
an  hour,  an*  'hen  they  quit  Happy  Grove  hed 
two  misses  less  than  Kishikoquillas.  Jimson  was 
smilin'  triumphant.  Perry  didn't  do  nawthin'  but 
set  there  quiet  like. 

"  Then  come  the  final  test — the  spellin'  down. 
After  a  recess  o'  ten  minutes  the  sides  lined  up 
agin,  an'  'henever  one  missed  a  word  he  hed  to  go 
sit  in  the  aud'ence.  They  spelled  an'  spelled  tell 
they  was  no  one  left  but  Jawhn  Jimson  an'  Perry 
Muthersbaugh,  standin'  glarin'  at  each  other  an' 
singin'  out  letters.  It  was  a  grand  sight.  Hannah 
Ciders  was  pale  an'  tremblin',  fer  she  knowd  the 
valley  of  an  idle  word  then.  The  aud'ence  was 
most  stretchin'  their  necks  outen  joint  they  was  so 
interested.  Two  lamps  went  out  an'  no  one  fixed 
them.  The  air  was  blue  with  steam  made  be  the 


The  Spelling  Bee.  25 

snow  meltin'  offen  the  fellys'  boots,  the  stove 
begin  to  smoke,  an'  the  room  was  suffocatin',  yit 
no  one  thot  to  put  up  a  winder,  the  excitemen* 
was  so  bad. 

"  Sech  words  ez  penultimate,  concatenation, 
pentateuch  an'  silhouette  come  dead  easy  to  them 
teachers.  They  kep'  glarin'  at  each  other  an* 
spellin'  like  their  life  depended  on  it.  Poor 
Long's  voice  got  weaker  an'  weaker  givin'  out 
words,  an'  I  was  that  nervous  I  could  hairdly  see. 
They  spelled  all  the  ations  an'  entions,  all  the 
words  endin'  in  i-s-m,  d-l-e  an'  ness,  tell  it  seemed 
they'd  use  up  the  book.  Perry  was  gittin'  more 
excited.  Jimson's  knees  was  tremblin'  visible. 

"  Then  Rorybory  Allus  was  give  out.  You 
could  'a'  heard  a  pin  drop  in  that  room.  Jimson 
he  begin  slow,  ez  ef  it  was  dead  easy  :  '  A-r-o-r-a, 
Aurora ;  b-o-r,  Aurora  Bor ;  e-a-l-i-s,  Aurora 
Borealis.' 

"  A  mumble  went  over  the  room.  He  seen  he 
was  wrong  an'  yelled,  '  A-u,  I  mean  ! ' 

"  '  Too  late,'  sais  Long.  '  Only  one  chancet  at 
a  time.  The  gentleman  who  gits  it  right  first, 
wins.' 

"  Jawhn  was  white  ez  a  sheet,  an'  his  face  an' 
han's  was  twitchin'  ez  he  stood  there  glarin'  at 
Perry.  Muthersbaugh  looked  at  the  floor  like  he 
was  stedyin'.  I  seen  Hannah  Ciders  lean  for'a'd 
an'  grip  the  desk  with  her  han's.  Then  I  knowd 
she'd  made  up  her  min'  which  she  favored. 


26  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

"  He  begin,  '  A-u-,  au  ;  r-o-r,  ror,  Auror ;  a,  Au- 
rora ;  B-o-r-e,  bore,  Aurora  Bore  ;  a-/,  al,  Aurora 
Boreal —  Then  he  stopped,  an'  looked  up  at  the 
ceilin',  an'  stedied. 

"  I  seen  tears  in  Hannah  Ciders'  eyes  ez  she 
leaned  for'a'd,  not  breathin'.  I  seen  Jimson  grin, 
an'  knowd  he  remembered  he'd  left  out  the  u  an' 
'ud  spell  it  jest  ez  quick  ez  he  got  a  chancet.  I 
believed  Perry  was  goin'  to  say  a,  that  it  was  all 
up  with  him  an'  that  Hannah  Ciders  knowd  too 
late  who  she  favored. 

"  All  o'  a  sudden  the  door  flew  open  an'  they 
was  a  cry  :  '  Hoss  thief  !  thieves  !  Some  un's  run 
off  with  Teacher  Jimson's  sleigh.' 

"  You  uns  never  seen  sech  a  panic.  The  weemen 
jumped  up  an*  yelled.  The  men  all  piled  outen 
the  door.  Jawhn  Jimson  climbed  th'oo  the 
winder,  an'  Teacher  Long  dropped  his  spellin' 
book  an'  followed.  To  my  surprise  Perry  Muth- 
ersbaugh  never  moved.  He  jest  stood  there 
lookin'  at  Hannah  Ciders  an'  smilin'  while  she 
gazed  back.  I  was  gittin'  outen  the  winder  among 
the  last  an'  turned  to  see  ef  Perry  was  ahint  me — 
that's  how  I  noticed  it.  Fer  three  minutes  them 
two  stared  at  each  other  an'  I  stared  at  them,  not 
knowin'  what  to  make  of  it.  Meantime  the  room 
was  cleared.  Outside  we  heard  the  sleighbells 
ringin'  ez  the  boys  started  off  after  the  thieves ; 
we  heard  Jawhn  Jimson  an'  Teacher  Long  callin* 
to  'em  to  go  in  this  an*  that  direction ;  we  heard 


The  Spelling  Bee.  27 

the  weemen  complainin'  because  so  many'd  hev 
to  walk  home. 

"Jest  then  the  rear  winder,  right  back  o' where 
Perry  was  standin',  slid  up  an'  his  young  brother 
Sam  stuck  in  his  head.  He  looked  'round,  an' 
he  seen  the  coast  was  clear.  Then  he  whispered, 
'  I  give  that  'larm  in  time,  Perry,  didn't  1  ? 
Teacher  Jimson's  horse  is  hitched  right  here  ahint 
the  school-house,  an'  you  can  take  her  home  jest 
ez  soon  ez  the  last  o'  these  fools  gits  away.' 

"  Perry  wheeled  round  an'  run  at  the  young- 
ster, ketchin'  him  be  the  collar  an'  draggin'  him 
inter  the  room. 

" '  What  you  mean,'  sais  he,  shakin'  him  like  a 
rat.  '  What  you  mean  be  spoilin'  the  bee  ?' 

"  Sam  begin  to  yowl.  '  I  seen  ye  was  stuck,'  he 
sais, '  an'  I  thot  I'd  help  ye  out.' 

"  With  that  Perry  th'owed  his  brother  off  into  a 
corner  o'  the  room.  Then  he  stood  up  straight 
an'  looked  Hannah  Ciders  right  in  the  eye. 

" '  He  thot  I  was  stuck,'  he  sayd,  steppin'  off 
the  platform  an'  walkin'  up  to  the  girl.  '  But 
I  ain't.  The  last  syllable's  c-a-l-a-s !' 

" '  No,'  she  answers  quiet  like.  '  It's  e-a-l-i-s 
— but  that  ain't  no  difference.'  " 


CHAPTER  III. 

Absalom  Bunkel. 

THE  Patriarch  flattened  his  nose  against  the 
grimy  windowpane  and  peered  out  into  the 
storm. 

"  Mighty  souls  ! "  he  cried.  "  Jest  look  at  it  a- 
comin'  down  !  Hed  I  a-knowd  we  was  goin'  to 
hev  it  like  this,  you'd  'a'  seen  me  a-leavin'  home — 
you'd  'a'  seen  me  a-leavin'  home." 

The  old  man  thoughtfully  stroked  his  beard. 
He  felt  that  he  had  met  but  just  retribution  for 
coming  to  the  store  to  loaf.  When  an  hour  be- 
fore he  had  awakened  from  a  doze  in  his  armchair, 
picked  up  his  stick  and  hobbled  to  the  village,  the 
sky  was  clear  and  blue  ;  not  a  cloud  was  visible 
anywhere,  and  the  sun  was  blazing  down  on  the 
fields  of  yellow  grain  that  he  overlooked  from  the 
porch  of  his  little  house  on  the  hill.  But  the 
storm  had  been  gathering  its  force  unseen  behind 
the  neighboring  mountains,  piling  black  cloud  on 
black  cloud.  And  then,  like  an  army  charging  on 
a  sleeping  enemy,  it  swept  forth  from  its  hiding- 
28 


Absalom  Bunkel.  29 

place,  amid  the  flash  of  lightning  and  the  crash  of 
thunder,  and  deluged  the  valley. 

"  My,  oh,  my  !  "  muttered  the  old  man.  "  It 
serves  me  right.  I  ought  to  'a'  knowd  better. 
'Henever  I  runs  down  here  fer  a  minute's  loaf,  it 
rains ;  never  a  team  comes  'long  to  give  me  a  lift 
home,  an'  I  hes  to  paddle  back  in  me  leaky  ole 
boots." 

He  hobbled  to  his  chair  by  the  empty  stove, 
about  which  were  gathered  the  men  of  the  village, 
despite  the  fact  that  no  fire  blazed  within  and  the 
cold  weather  was  far  ahead. 

"  I  hope  the  company  ain't  displeasin',"  drawled 
the  Chronic  Loafer.  He  knocked  the  ashes  out 
of  his  pipe,  refilled  and  lighted  it,  and  sprawled 
out  upon  the  counter. 

"  Not  at  all— at  all.  It's  the  loafin'  I  hate.  I 
never  could  loaf  jest  right,"  replied  the  Patriarch, 
glancing  at  the  prostrate  form. 

The  Loafer  gave  no  answer  save  a  faint  "  Huh ! " 

"  Jest  because  a  felly  sets  'round  the  stove, 
hain't  no  sign  he's  lazy,  Grandpap,"  said  the 
Miller  with  warmth. 

"  Fur  be  it  from  me  from  sayin*  so,  boys — fur 
be  it,"  said  the  old  man.  "  But  ez  I  was  sayin'  a 
while  ago,  I  don't  want  to  git  inter  no  sech  habits 
ez  Absalom  Bunkel." 

"  Ab'slom  Bunkel — Bunkel — Bunkel?  "  repeated 
the  Tinsmith,  punctuating  his  remark  with  puffs 
of  tobacco  smoke. 


3o  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

"  Bunkel — Bunkel  ?  "  said  the  Storekeeper  in- 
quiringly, tapping  the  end  of  his  nose  with  his 
pencil. 

"  Who's  Abs'lom  Bunkel  ?  "  the  Loafer  cried. 

"  Absalom  Bunkel  was  a  man  ez  was  nat'rally 
so  lazy  it  was  a  credit  to  him  every  time  he  moved," 
the  Patriarch  began.  He  fixed  his  stick  firmly  on 
the  floor,  piled  his  two  fat  hands  on  its  big  knob 
head,  and  leaned  forward  until  his  chin  almost 
rested  on  his  knuckles.  "  You  uns  knows  the  old 
lawg  house  that  stands  where  the  Big  Run  crosses 
the  road  over  the  mo'ntain.  It's  all  tumbled  down 
now.  They  ain't  no  daubin'  atween  the  lawgs ; 
the  chimbley's  fallen,  the  fence  is  gone,  an'  the 
lot's  choked  up  with  weeds.  It's  a  forlorn  place 
to-day,  but  'hen  I  was  a  lad  it  was  jest  about  the 
slickest  thing  along  the  ridge  yander.  That's 
where  Absalom  Bunkel  lived,  an'  his  pap,  an'  his 
pap's  pap  lived  afore  him.  Ezry  Bunkel  was  a 
mean  man,  an'  he  come  nat'ral  by  his  meanness, 
fer  they  never  was  one  o'  the  name  who  was 
knowed  to  buy  anything  he  could  bony  or  give 
away  anything  he  could  sell.  So  'hen  he  died  he 
left  Absalom  a  neat  little  pile  o'  about  nine  hun- 
dred dollars.  An'  a  fortunate  thing  it  was  fer  the 
son,  fer  he'd  ruther  by  fur  set  on  the  porch  with  the 
pangs  o' hunger  gnawin'  th'oo  him,  a-listenin'  to 
the  birds  an'  watchin'  the  bees  a-hummin'  over 
the  sunflowers,  than  to  'a'  worked. 

"  Now  Absalom  was  afore  my  time,  an'  I  never 


Absalom  Bunkel.  31 

seen  him  myself,  but  I've  heard  tell  of  him  from 
my  pap,  an*  what  my  pap  sayd  was  allus  true — 
true  ex  gawspel  it  was.  He  otter  'a'  knowd  all 
about  it,  too,  fer  he  was  a  pall-bearer  at  Ezry's 
funeral.  Absalom  was  thirty-five  year  old  'hen 
that  happened.  He  didn't  go  off  spendin'  his  for- 
tune— not  much.  He  jest  set  right  down  in  a 
rockin*  chair  on  the  front  porch  an'  let  his  sister 
Nancy  look  after  the  place.  Nance  done  the 
farmin' ;  Nance  made  the  garden  ;  Nance  milked 
the  cow  ;  Nance  done  the  housework  an'  come  to 
the  store.  He  done  nawthin' — absolute  nawthin'. 

"  He  was  never  out  o'  bed  afore  sun-up.  Ef 
it  was  warm  he'd  set  on  the  leetle  porch  all  day 
lookin'  over  the  walley,  watchin'  the  folks  goin' 
by  an'  the  birds  swoopin'  th'oo  the  fiel's,  an' 
listenin'  to  the  dreamy  hum  o'  nature.  Ef  it  was 
cold  he'd  loaf  all  day  be  the  fireplace,  bakin'  his 
shins.  Sometim's  Nance  'ud  go  away  fer  a  spell 
an'  fergit  to  leave  him  wood.  Does  he  cut  some 
fer  himself  like  an  ordinary  man  ?  Not  him.  He 
jest  walks  to  the  nearest  possible  fence-rail,  kerrys 
it  inter  the  house,  puts  one  eend  inter  the  fire 
an'  keeps  pushin'  een  ez  it  burns  off.  That's  the 
kind  o'  a  felly  Absalom  Bunkel  was. 

"  Now  it  happened  that  'hen  he  'd  been  livin' 
this  way  tell  his  forty-fifth  year  ole  Andy  Crim- 
mel  tuk  a  placet  about  a  miled  beyant  his.  One 
nice  afternoon  ez  Absalom  set  a-dozin'  on  the 
porch,  Andy's  dotter,  Annie  May,  come  trippin' 


32  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

down  the  road  on  her  way  to  the  store,  lookin* 
pretty  ez  a  pictur  in  her  red  sunbonnet,  swingin* 
a  basket  an'  singin'  a  melancholy  piece.  Absalom 
woke  with  a  start  an'  rubbed  his  heavy  eyes. 
He  got  sight  of  her  pink  cheeks  afore  she  ducked 
under  her  bonnet,  fer  'hen  she  seen  him  she 
sudden  stopped  her  singin'  an'  walked  by  a-lookin' 
over  the  walley.  That  one  glance  done  Absalom 
Bunkel.  He  stayed  awake  tell  she  come  back. 

"  That  night  he  didn't  eat  no  supper. 

"  '  Nance,'  sais  he  to  his  sister,  '  how  fur  is  it 
to  Crimmel's  ?' 

"  '  Nigh  onter  a  miled,'  sais  she. 

"  An'  he  jest  groaned,  drawed  his  boots,  tuk  a 
candle  an'  went  up  to  bed. 

"Twicet  a  week  all  that  summer  Annie  May 
Crimmel  come  a-singin'  down  the  road.  An* 
Absalom,  dozin'  on  the  porch,  'ud  hear  her  voice 
tell  she'd  reached  the  edge  o'  the  woods.  There 
she'd  stop  her  song  an'  go  ploddin'  by,  gazin' 
over  the  walley  like  he  wasn't  about  or  wasn't 
wuth  lookin'  at.  Absalom  kept  gittin'  fatter  an' 
fatter  from  doin'  nawthin',  an'  it  seemed  to  him 
like  Annie  May  Crimmel  was  prettier  every  time 
she  went  to  store.  He  was  onrastless.  He  was 
onhappy.  He  knowd  what  was  wrong,  an'  he 
seen  no  cure,  fer  to  him  that  girl  walkin'  'long 
the  road  not  twenty  rods  from  his  house  was  like 
a  bit  o'  bread  danglin'  jest  beyant  the  reach  o'  a 
starvin'  man. 


Absalom  Bunkel.  33 

"  Perhaps  you  uns  wonders  why  he  didn't  go 
down  an'  speak  to  her.  That  wasn't  Absalom's 
way.  He  might  'a'  walked  that  fur  to  git  warm. 
But  to  speak  to  a  girl  ?  Never. 

"  Oncet  he  called  to  her,  but  she  paid  no  atten- 
tion, an'  hung  her  head  bashful  like,  an'  walked 
on  the  faster. 

"  '  Nance,'  sais  he  to  his  sister  that  night  at 
supper,  '  I've  kind  o'  a  notion  fer  Annie  May 
Crimmel,'  he  sais. 

"  '  Hev  you  ?  '  sais  she,  lookin'  surprised,  tho' 
of  course  she  knowd  it  an'  fer  weeks  hed  ben 
wonderin'  what  'ud  become  o'  her. 

" '  An'  mebbe,'  sais  he,  '  you  wouldn't  mind 
steppin'  over  there  to-morrow  an'  tellin'  her.' 

"  '  Umph,'  she  sais,  perkin'  up  her  nose.  '  You'll 
see  me  a-gaddin'  round  the  walley  settin'  up  with 
the  girls  fer  you  ! ' 

"  He  set  thinkin'  a  spell.  Then  he  sais,  trem'- 
lous  like,  '  Nance,  how  fur  is  it  to  Crimmel's  ? ' 

"  '  A  miled  to  an  inch,'  sais  she. 

"  He  jest  groaned  an'  went  off  to  bed  agin. 

"  They  say  that  next  day  toward  evenin'  Absa- 
lom was  seen  to  rise  from  his  chair ;  to  hesitate  ; 
to  set  down  ;  to  get  up  agin  an'  move  toward  the 
road.  He  got  to  the  gate,  pushed  it  half  open, 
an'  leaned  on  it.  Tell  sunset  he  stood  there, 
gazin'  wistful  like  toward  Crimmel's  placet.  Then 
Nance  called  him  in  fer  supper. 

"  Winter  drove  the  lazy  felly  inter  the  house. 
3 


34  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

All  day  long  he'd  set  be  the  windy  watchin'  fer 
Annie  May ;  an'  ez  she  passed  he'd  smile  soft- 
like  ;  'hen  she  was  gone  he'd  look  solemn  agin. 
An'  all  the  time  he  kep'  gittin'  fatter  an'  fatter, 
an'  more  an'  more  onrastless. 

"  Winter  broke  an'  March  went  by.  Apryl  first 
was  a  fine  warm  day,  so  Absalom  took  his  chair 
out  on  the  porch  an'  set  there  lookin'  down  the 
ridge  into  the  walley,  where  the  men  was  a-plow- 
in'.  All  at  oncet  he  heard  a  creakin'  o'  wheels 
an'  a  rattle  o'  gears  that  caused  him  to  turn  his 
eyes  up  the  road.  Outen  the  woods  come  a 
wagon  piled  high  with  f  urnitur'.  It  was  a  flittin', 
the  Crimmel's  flittin',  ez  he  knowd  'hen  he  seen 
Andy  drivin'  an'  the  Missus  an'  Annie  May 
ridin'  on  the  horses.  Bunkel  was  stunned — clean 
stunned.  The  flittin'  went  creakin'  past  the  house, 
him  jest  settin'  there  starin'.  He  knowd  what  it 
meant  to  him.  He  knowd  it  was  fer  him  jest  the 
same  ez  the  death  of  Annie  May,  but  he  couldn't 
do  nawthin'.  The  wagon  swung  'round  the  bend 
an'  was  out  o'  sight. 

"  'Hen  Absalom  seen  the  last  o'  the  red  bonnet 
flashin'  in  the  sun,  he  th'owed  his  hands  to  his 
head  like  they  was  a  pain  there.  Sudden  he 
jumped  from  his  chair  an*  run  toward  the  road 
yellin',  '  Hey !  hey  !  Annie  May  ! ' 

"  He  tore  th'oo  the  gate,  down  the  hill,  an' 
'round  the  turn.  They  was  in  sight  agin. 

"  '  Annie  May  ! '  he  called,  '  Annie  May ! ' 


Absalom  Bunkel.  35 

"  The  wagon  stopped.  The  girl  climbed  offen 
the  horse  an'  run  toward  him,  stretchin'  out  her 
hands  an'  cryin',  '  Absalom,  Absalom  ! ' 

"  'Hen  he  seen  her  comin'  he  set  right  down  in 
the  road  to  wait  fer  her.  Her  arms  fell  to  her 
side,  an'  she  stopped. 

"  '  Annie  May,'  he  called,  '  come  here.  I've 
somethin'  to  tell  yer.' 

"  She  turned  an'  walked  with  hangin'  head  back 
to  the  wagon.  She  climbed  on  her  horse,  an'  a 
minute  later  the  flittin'  disappeared  in  the  hollow 
at  the  foot  o*  the  ridge." 

The  Patriarch  arose  from  his  chair,  walked 
slowly  to  the  door  and  stood  there  looking  out 
into  the  rain.  The  men  about  the  stove  gazed  in 
astonished  silence  at  his  back. 

The  Miller  spoke  first.     "  Well,  Grandpap  ?  " 

"  Well  ?  "  said  the  old  man,  wheeling  about. 

"  What  happened  ?  " 

"  Who  sayd  anything  was  a-goin'  to  happen  ?  " 
snapped  the  Patriarch. 

"  What  become  o'  Absalom  ?  "  asked  the  Store- 
keeper timidly. 

"  Oh,  he  died  o'  over-exertin',"  said  the  Chronic 
Loafer,  wearily,  as  he  threw  himself  back  on  the 
counter. 

The  Patriarch  gave  no  heed  to  this  remark,  but 
raising  his  right  hand  and  emphasizing  each  word 
with  a  solemn  wag  of  the  forefinger,  said,  "  Boys, 
I  don't  know  what  happened.  Pap  never  sayd. 


36  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

But  now,  'henever  I  thinks  o'  a  lazy  man,  I  pic- 
turs  Absalom  Bunkel,  settin'  there  in  the  road, 
his  fat  legs  stretched  out  afore  him,  his  fat  arms 
proppin'  up  that  unwieldy  body  o'  hisn,  his  eyes 
an'  his  ears  a-strainin'  to  see  an'  hear  th'oo  the 
darkness  that  gathered  'round  him  what  he 
might  'a'  seen  an'  heard  allus  hed  he  only  hed  the 
ambition  to  'a'  gone  a  few  steps  furder," 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  Missus. 

"  A  MAN  without  a  missus  is  like  an  engyne 
without  a  governor — he  either  goes  too  slow  or 
too  fast,"  said  the  Chronic  Loafer. 

"  Mighty  souls  !  "  cried  the  Miller.  "  What  in 
the  name  o'  common  sense  put  that  idee  into  yer 
head  ?  " 

"  It  was  planted  there  be  accident,  cultiwated 
be  experience,  an'  to-day  it  jest  blossomed,"  was 
the  reply. 

The  Loafer  had  come  in  from  a  morning  on  the 
ridges  hunting  rabbits.  His  old  muzzle  loader 
leaned  against  the  counter  and  his  hound  Tiger 
was  sitting  at  his  side,  his  head  resting  on  the 
master's  knee  and  his  solitary  eye  watching  every 
movement  of  the  thin,  grizzled  face,  which  was 
almost  hidden  by  a  blue  cloth  cap,  with  a  low 
hanging  visor,  and  ear-tabs.  The  Loafer  removed 
the  tabs  and  stuffed  them  into  his  pocket.  Then 
he  laid  his  hand  on  his  dog's  head  and  stroked  it. 

The  ticking  of  the  clock,  which  had  a  place  on 
a  shelf  between  two  jars  of  stick-candy,  accentu- 

37 


38  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

ated  the  long  silence  that  followed.  Tiger  seemed 
to  feel  that  the  hush  boded  ill  to  his  lord,  and 
cocked  one  ear  and  uttered  a  low  growl. 

The  Teacher  pointed  his  forefinger  at  the 
Loafer  and  said,  "  I  judge  that  you  intended  to 
imply  that  havin'  a  governor  you  run  regular. 
Some  engines,  you  know,  run  regular  but  very 
slow." 

"An*  some  runs  wery  fast,"  was  the  retort. 
"  An'  they  buzzes  pretty  loud  'thout  doin'  a  tre- 
mendous amount  o*  labor." 

"  Now  you're  gettin'  personal  and " 

"  Boys,  boys !  "  The  Patriarch  was  rapping  for 
order.  "  Don't  git  quarrelin'  over  the  question 
of  engynes.  Fer  my  part  the  plain  ole  waterwheel 
beats  'em  holly." 

The  Miller  tilted  over  on  his  nail  keg  and 
tapped  the  Loafer  on  the  elbow. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said.  "  Where  did  ye  git  that 
idee  ?  It  sounds  almanacky." 

"  That  idee  was  ginirated  this  mornin'  ez  me 
an'  Tige  was  roamin'  'round  Gum  hill  tryin'to 
start  a  rabbit.  They  bein'  no  rabbits,  me  an' 
Tige  set  down  an'  gunned  for  idees.  It  was 
peaceful  an'  nice  there  on  the  ridge.  The  woods 
hed  the  reg'lar  cheery  November  rattle,  like  a 
dried  up,  jolly  ole  man.  The  wind  was  a-shakin' 
the  dead  leaves,  an'  they  was  a-chipperin'  an' 
chirpin'.  The  pignuts  was  jumpin'  from  the 
limbs,  sloshin*  th'oo  the  branches  an'  tumblin' 


The  Missus.  39 

'round  the  ground.  Overhead  a  couple  of  crows 
was  a-floppin'  about  an'  whoopin'  like  a  lot  of 
boys  on  skates,  fer  the  air  was  bitin'  like,  an'  put 
life  in  ye. 

"  Ez  I  set  there  on  a  lawg  I  minded  a  felly  I 
oncet  heard  up  to  liter' ry  society,  who  read  a 
piecet  'bout  how  the  year  was  dyin'  fer  autumn 
was  at  hand.  I  noticed  Tige  ez  he  was  rollin' 
'round  chasin'  pignuts,  an'  I  sais  to  meself,  sais  I : 
'  Dyin'  ?  Why,  no.  It's  only  in  its  second  chil'- 
hood.'  An'  I  looked  down  the  hill  into  the  gut 
an'  seen  the  smoke  curlin'  up  th'oo  the  trees  in 
the  ole  Homer  clearin'.  That's  where  I  got  the 
Missus.  Then  it  was  that  that  idee  'bout  engynes 
an'  weemen  blossomed. 

"  Before  the  first  time  I  ever  seen  that  clearin'  I 
kind  o'  lived  in  jerks.  Sometimes  I'd  run  hard 
an'  fast,  an'  'ud  make  a  heap  o'  noise,  an'  smash 
all  the  machinery.  Then  I'd  hev  to  lay  off  a 
month  or  so  to  git  patched  up  agin.  My  pap 
was  a  cute  man.  He  seen  right  th'oo  me  an'  he 
knowd  what  was  wrong.  'What  you  need  is  a 
governor,'  sayd  he.  An'  I  got  one.  Sence  then 
I've  ben  runnin'  smooth  an'  reg'lar  an'  not  wery 
fast.  But  I  hain't  broke  no  machinery,  an*  I've 
never  stopped  entirely. 

"  Now  it  went  pretty  hard  with  Pap  after 
Mother  died,  fer  he  never  did  like  housework  an* 
was  continual  beggin'  me  to  git  merried.  He 
was  a-naggin'  an'  naggin'  all  the  time,  petickler 


40  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

'hen  he  was  washin'  dishes.  He'd  p'int  out  cer- 
tain girls  in  the  walley  that  he  thot  'ud  hev  me, 
an'  he'd  argy  that  I  otter  step  up  like  a  leetle 
man  an'  speak  me  mind  to  'em.  He  even  went 
so  fur  as  to  'low  he'd  give  me  the  whole  placet 
ef  unly  I'd  git  some  un  to  take  the  housework 
offen  his  hands.  First  it  was  Mary  Potzer.  She 
hed  five  hundred  dollars  an'  was  a  special  good 
match,  but  her  looks  was  agin  her.  She  was 
Omish,  an'  like  most  Omish  folk  was  square  built, 
'cept  fer  bein'  rounded  off  a  leetle  on  top.  The 
ole  man  wouldn't  give  me  no  peace  tell  I  ast  her. 
I  didn't  dast  do  that,  but  I  tol'  him  I  hed,  an'  that 
she  sayd  she  'ud  take  me  ef  he  kep*  on  doin'  the 
cookin'.  That  kind  o'  quieted  him  fer  a  spell,  an' 
some  months  passed  afore  he  tuk  up  the  subject 
agin.  Next  he  got  to  backin'  Rosey  Simpson. 
She  was  tolable  good-lookin'  an*  lively,  he  sayd, 
an'  I  'lowed  he  was  right,  unly  she  was  too  lively 
fer  me.  I  minded  the  time  I  seen  her  sail  inter 
Bumbletree's  Durham  bull  'hen  he'd  butted  a 
petickler  pet  sheep  o1  hers.  She  made  the  ole 
beast  feel  so  humble  that  I  concided  she  might 
do  fer  a  defender  but  never  fer  a  wife.  Next  it 
was  Sue  Kindler  an'  then  Sairy  Somthin'-else, 
tell  I  was  clean  tired  o'  the  whole  idee. 

"  One  night  'hen  he'd  ben  pesterin'  me  most 
mighty  bad  I  gits  mad  an'  sais,  '  See  here,  I  ain't 
courtin'  trouble.  I'm  comf'table  an'  happy  ez  I 
am/  I  sais.  '  I've  got  you  an'  Major — Major  was 


The  Missus.  41 

the  dog — so  why  do  I  want  to  go  settin'  a  trap 
'hen  I  can't  be  sure  what  I'm  goin'  to  catch?  ' 

"  '  My  boy,'  Pap  answered, '  use  the  proper  bait 
an'  you'll  git  the  right  game.' 

"  Now  Pap  use  to  git  off  some  good  uns  oncet 
in  a  while,  but  I  wasn't  in  fer  givin'  him  the 
credit.  I  scatted  the  whole  plan.  I  didn't  know 
so  much  then  ez  I  knows  now.  Still,  sometim's  I 
'low  that  ef  it  hedn't  'a'  ben  fer  Major,  I  might  o' 
dissypinted  the  ole  man  anyhow.  Major  was  a 
coon  dog,  an'  a  mighty  fine  one,  bein'  half  setter, 
quarter  houn',  an'  last  quarter  coach.  Me  an' 
him  was  great  buddies.  Wherever  we  went  he 
allus  hed  an  eye  out  fer  game.  He  knowd  the 
seasons,  too.  Ef  it  was  September  he  was  watch- 
in'  fer  squirrels  ;  October,  fer  patridges  ;  November, 
rabbits ;  springtime,  girls.  It  was  in  the  spring 
'hen  I  happened  to  hear  Si  Bumbletree  speakin' 
o'  a  petickler  fine  lot  o'  saplin's  fer  walkin'  sticks 
that  was  growin'  on  the  chestnut  flats  at  the  foot 
o'  the  mo'ntain  jest  above  Andy  Homer's  clearin'. 
So  I  sais  to  meself,  I  sais,  it  bein'  a  fine  warm 
day,  I'll  jest  mosey  up  there  an'  git  me  one  o' 
them  staffs.  It  was  a  good  th'ee  mile  up  the 
walley  an'  over  the  ridge  an'  acrosst  the  gut,  but 
I  found  the  placet  all  right  an'  cut  me  a  nice 
straight  cane.  I  was  comin'  home,  peelin'  off  the 
bark  an'  not  thinkin'  o'  anything  in  petickler,  'hen 
I  hear  Major  givin'  a  low  growl.  I  looked  up. 
We  was  passin'  Horner's  clearin'.  There  stood 


42  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

the  dog,  foreleg  lifted,  tail  straight  out,  nose 
pintin'  th'oo  the  blackberry  bushes  'long  the 
fence. 

"  '  There  is  somethin'  pretty  important,'  I  sais 
to  meself. 

"  An'  with  that  I  walks  up  to  the  hedge  an' 
peeks  over. 

"  Settin'  on  thegroun',  weedin'  the  onion-patch, 
was  the  prettiest  girl  I  ever  laid  eyes  on.  She 
looked  up  from  een  under  her  sunbonnet  outen  a 
pair  o'  sparklin'  blue  eyes,  an'  showed  two  rosy 
cheeks  with  a  perk  leetle  nose  atween  'em.  Major 
he  hed  ducked  th'oo  a  hole  in  the  fence  an'  come 
out  on  the  other  side,  an'  wasstandin'  solemn-like, 
lookin'  at  her.  All  o'  a  sudden  he  begin  jumpin' 
up  an'  down,  first  on  his  front  legs  an*  then  on  his 
hint  legs,  archin'  his  neck,  waggin'  his  tail,  an' 
showin'  his  teeth  like  he  was  smilin'  all  over. 

"  '  That's  a  nice  dog  you  hev,'  sais  the  girl,  kind 
o'  musical.  She  had  stopped  her  weedin'  an'  was 
settin'  up  lookin'  at  the  houn'. 

"  'Yes,'  sais  I,  '  he  is  a  tolable  nice  animal.' 

"  Then  I  thinks  to  meself,  '  Major  seems  to  like 
her ;  I  wonder  how  she'd  suit  Pap.' 

"  Soon  ez  that  come  into  me  mind  I  seen  it  was 
time  I  got  out.  I  turned  an'  walked  down  the 
road  harder  than  I'd  ever  walked  afore. 

"  That  night  I  couldn't  eat  no  supper.  I'd 
never  felt  that  same  way  an'  it  worrit  me.  I  knowd 
no  cause  fer  it,  yit  I  kind  o'  thot  I  didn't  keer 


The  Missus.  43 

whether  I  lived  or  died.  It  worrit  Pap  too.  He 
'lowed  he'd  hev  to  powwow  me. 

"  '  How  are  ye  goin'  to  powwow  me,'  sais  I, '  'hen 
ye  don't  know  what  I'm  sufferin'  from  ?  What  I've 
got  ain't  nawthin',  yit  I  wish  it  was  somethin'  jest 
to  take  me  mind  offen  it.' 

"  That  was  ez  near  ez  I  could  git  to  the  disease. 
Pap  leaned  back  in  his  cheer  an'  laughed  like  he'd 
die.  'Hen  he'd  finished  splittin'  his  sides  he  come 
over  to  where  I  was  settin'  be  the  fire. 

"  '  What  you  needs,'  sais  he,  '  is  to  go  out  an' 
look  at  the  moon.' 

"  Before  that  I'd  never  thot  o'  the  moon  'cept 
ez  a  kind  o'  lantern  to  hunt  coons  by.  But  'hen 
I  tuk  his  adwice,  an'  lit  me  pipe,  an'  went  out  an' 
set  on  the  pump  trough,  watchin'  the  ole  felly 
come  climbin'  over  the  ridges,  all  yeller  an'  smilin' 
an'  friendly,  I  seen  he  hed  a  new  uset.  Whatever 
it  was  I'd  ben  sufferin'  from  kind  o'  passed  away 
an'  left  me  ca'm  an'  peaceful.  Me  brain  seemed 
like  a  pool  o'  wotter  in  a  wood,  all  still-like,  'cept 
fer  a  few  ripples  o'  idees  on  the  surface.  How 
long  I  set  there  I  don't  know.  I  might  'a* 
ben  there  all  night  hed  the  ole  man  not  called 
me  een. 

"  The  first  thing  I  seen  ez  I  went  into  the  house, 
was  Major  crouchin'  be  the  fire  watchin'  it  wery 
intent.  His  supper  lay  beside  him.  Not  a  bone 
hed  ben  teched. 

"  '  Whatever  it  is,'  sais  I,  '  it's  ketchinV 


44  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

"  They  was  nawthin'  doin'  'round  the  house 
next  day  after  breakfast,  so  I  minded  that  Pap 
hedn't  a  walkin'-stick.  I  concided  I'd  mosey  up 
to  the  chestnut  flats  an'  cut  me  a  staff  fer  the  ole 
man.  Major  went  along,  an'  we  got  a  petickler 
nice  piece  o'  kinnykinnick  wood.  On  the  road 
home  we  happened  to  pass  be  Horner's  clearin'. 
Ez  we  was  opposite  the  house  I  heard  some  un 
a-choppin*  an'  seen  the  chips  flyin'  up  over  the 
hedge.  Feelin'  kind  o'  thirsty  I  stopped  een  to 
git  a  drink  o'  wotter.  There  she  was  a-splittin' 
firewood.  'Hen  I  explained,  she  pinted  out  the 
spring  an'  went  on  with  her  work.  Ye  might  'a  ' 
s'posed  we  was  unly  two  coon  dogs  hed  dropped 
een  fer  a  call,  she  was  so  cool.  But  I  wasn't  fer 
goin'  tell  I'd  at  least  passed  the  time  a  day,  so  I 
fixed  meself  on  a  block  o'  oak  with  Major  beside 
me. 

"  '  What  are  ye  doin'  ?  '  I  asts,  be  way  o'  open- 
in'  up. 

"  '  It  doesn't  look  like  ez  tho'  I  was  knittin', 
does  it  ? '  she  sais  kind  o'  sharp. 

"  With  that  she  drove  the  axe  th'oo  a  stick  o* 
hickory  ez  big  'round  ez  my  body.  It  was  all  I 
could  git  outen  her.  So  me  an'  Major  jest  set 
there  watchin'  quiet-like.  It  was  amazin'  the  way 
she  could  chop  wood — amazin' — an'  I  enjoyed  it 
most  a  mighty  well.  The  axe  'ud  swish  th'oo  the 
air  over  her  head  ;  down  it  'ud  come  on  the  lawg, 
straight  an'  true ;  out  'ud  fly  a  th'ee-cornered 


The  Missus.  45 

chip  ez  neat  ez  ef  it  hed  ben  sawed.  She  never 
looked  one  way  nor  the  other,  nor  paid  no  atten- 
tion, but  kep'  a-pilin'  up  firewood  tell  they  was 
enough  to  last  a  week.  Then  she  stuck  the  axe 
in  the  choppin'  block  and  walked  inter  the  house. 
Me  an'  Major  moved  on. 

"  That  night  I  couldn't  git  no  sleep.  The  ole 
trouble  come  on  agin,  an'  I  went  out  an'  looked 
at  the  moon  tell  final  I  dozed  off  in  the  pump- 
trough.  'Hen  I  woke  nextmornin'  I  knowd  what 
was  wrong.  I  knowd  that  what  I  hed  was  some- 
thin'  I'd  be  better  without,  yit  hed  I  to  do  it  over 
agin  I  wouldn't  hev  awoided  it.  I  knowd  I  could 
cut  all  the  saplin's  offen  the  chestnut  flats  an*  I 
wouldn't  git  no  ease.  'Hen  I  went  over  the  ridge 
that  day  I  didn't  try  to  fool  meself  cuttin'  staffs. 
No  sir.  I  walked  straight  fer  the  clearin'.  Ez  I 
come  near  the  house  I  whistled  pretty  loud  to 
give  warnin'.  At  the  gate  I  looked  een.  No  one 
was  'round.  I  thot  to  meself  she  was  in  the  house, 
so  I  whistled  louder.  Major  seemed  to  under- 
stand too,  an'  begin  barkin'  to  beat  all.  But  it 
hedn't  no  effect.  That  kind  o'  made  me  feel 
down  like  an'  me  heart  weighed  wery  heavy  ez  I 
set  on  the  stoop  to  wait  fer  her.  All  o'  a  sudden 
I  hear  a  rat-tat-tat  comin'  from  the  barn.  There 
she  was  on  the  roof,  a-nailin'  shingles.  I  walked 
down  an'  looked  up  at  her. 

"  '  Hello  ! '  I  calls. 

"  '  Hello  ! '  sais  she.     With  that  she  drove  five 


46  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

shingle  nails  one  after  another,  never  payin'  no 
attention. 

" '  What  are  ye  doin'  ?  '  I  asts  ez  I  fixed  me- 
self  on  a  chicken-coop  an'  lighted  me  pipe.  It's 
pretty  hard  talkin'  to  a  girl  'hen  she's  mendin'  a 
barn  roof,  an'  ez  I  didn't  git  no  answer  I  stood  up 
an'  yelled  at  the  top  o*  me  woice,  '  What  are  ye 
doin'  ?  ' 

" '  Well,'  sais  she,  '  I  s'pose  it  does  look  ez  tho' 
I'm  playin*  the  melodium,  don't  it?' 

"  She  wasn't  in  a  wery  sociable  turn  o'  mind, 
but  I'm  one  o'  those  felly's  that  oncet  he  gits  his 
plow  in  the  furrow  don't  pull  it  out  tell  he  has  at 
least  gone  oncet  'round  the  field.  So  I  jest  set 
there  smokin'  while  she  kep*  on  workin'.  By  an' 
by  the  dinner-bells  over  in  the  walley  begin  to 
ring,  an'  she  come  down.  She  never  sayd  a  word 
'hen  she  reached  the  ground,  but  I  wasn't  to  be 
put  back  that  'ay.  I  steps  up  wery  polite  an'  gits 
her  hammer  an'  kerrys  it  inter  the  house  fer  her. 
Weemen  allus  likes  them  leetle  attentions.  She 
did  any  way,  fer  she  smiled,  an'  'hen  I  'lowed  I 
must  be  goin',  she  sayd  good-by.  An'  I  went. 

"  That  night  ez  I  set  on  the  pump-trough  with 
Major  beside  me,  watchin'  the  moon  ez  it  come 
climbin'  up  over  the  ridges,  I  hear  plain  an' 
distinct  the  rat-tat-tat  o'  the  hammer  an'  the 
shingle  nails.  I  leaned  back  agin  the  pump, 
closed  me  eyes  an'  drank  in  the  music.  Soon  I 
seen  it  all  agin — the  barnyard  with  the  razor-back 


The  Missus.  47 

pig  an'  the  broken-horned  cow  browsin'  'round  ; 
the  barn,  so  ole  an'  tumble-down  that  the  hay  was 
stickin'  out  all  over  it  like  it  growed  on  the  boards  ; 
the  roof,  half  a  dozen  pigeons  cooin'  on  one  end, 
an'  her  on  the  other  tackin'  away.  Whatapictur 
it  'ud  made  fer  a  reg'lar  hand-paintin'  ! 

"  After  breakfast  Pap  lighted  his  pipe,  leaned 
back  in  his  cheer  an'  asted  me,  '  How's  that  ail- 
ment o*  yours  gittin'  now  ? ' 

"  '  Ailment  ?  '  sais  I,  cool  ez  ye  please.  '  Why, 
I  found  it  didn't  amount  to  nawthin'.  It's  all 
gone.' 

"  Pap  smoked  a  bit.  He  was  blinkin'  like 
somethin'  amused  him  powerful. 

"  '  By  the  way,'  he  sais,  '  I  was  up  past  Horner's 
clearin'  yestidy  an'  I  seen  that  humly  dotter  o' 
Andy's  a ' 

"  It  was  so  quick  an'  sudden,  I  forgot  meself. 
Never  afore  hed  I  felt  so  peculiarly,  so  almighty 
mad. 

"  '  See  here,'  I  cries,  jumpin'  up  an'  liftin'  me 
cheer,  '  don't  you  dast  talk  o'  Andy  Horner's 
dotter  that  'ay,'  I  sais.  '  Ef  ye  do ' 

"  I  stopped,  fer  he'd  leaned  back,  an'  was  lookin' 
at  the  ceilin'  an'  laughin'  an'  laughin'. 

"  '  I  thot  ye  hedn't  no  ailment,'  he  sais. 

"  Be  the  twinkle  in  his  eye  I  seen  how  he'd 
fooled  me,  an'  I  set  down  feelin*  smaller  than  a 
bunty  hen. 

" '  Ye  see/  sais  he,  '  I  was  comin'  th'oo  the  flats 


48  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

this  mornin'  after  I'd  ben  fishin'  trout  up  in  the 
big  run,  an'  ez  I  passed  Homer's  I  noticed  a  most 
remarkable  sight.  There  was  Pet  Horner  a-nailin' 
shingles  on  the  barn  roof  while  a  strange  man  set 
on  a  chicken-coop  smokin'.  I  sais  to  meself,  I 
sais,  '  Ef  that's  the  way  he  gits  a  missus,  I'll  do 
the  housework  tell  me  dyin'  day.' 

"  The  ole  man  wasn't  laughin'  now.  He  was 
on  a  subject  that  was  wery  dear  to  him.  His 
woice  was  husky  with  earnestness. 

"  '  Why  don't  ye  spruce  up  ?  '  he  sais.  '  Can't 
ye  chop  wood  fer  her,  or  churn  fer  her,  or  pick 
some  stone  offen  the  clearin'  fer  her  ?  Unly  do 
somethin'  to  show  her  ye  ain't  the  laziest  man  in 
the  walley.  Show  her  your  right  side.' 

"  *  Pap,'  sais  I,  '  'hen  my  Missus  takes  me  I 
wants  her  to  know  me  jest  ez  I  am,  not  as  I  otter 
be.  Ef  there's  any  lettin'  on  afore  the  weddin' 
there'll  be  no  lettin'  up  after  it.' 

"  With  that  I  gits  up  an'  walks  outen  the 
house,  whistlin'  fer  Major. 

"  Him  an'  me  went  up  to  Horner's  together. 
We  found  her  churnin',  an'  set  down  in  the  grass 
an'  watched.  Ez  I  watched  I  got  to  thinkin' 
over  what  the  ole  man  hed  sayd.  I  seen  that 
perhaps  he  was  right ;  that  I'd  git  her  quicker 
ef  I  worked  harder.  The  pictur  of  gittin'  her 
quicker  almost  made  me  git  up  an'  do  the 
churnin'.  But  I  thot  agin.  Ef  I  churned  now 
I'd  hev  to  churn  allus  or  else  I'd  be  cheatin'  her. 


The  Missus.  49 

Ef  she  knowd  she  was  takin'  a  man  who  was  agin 
the  wery  suggestion'  she'd  never  hev  no  cause  to 
complain.  So  I  jest  lay  there  chewin'  a  straw  an' 
lookin*. 

"  That's  the  way  I  done  me  courtin'  day  after 
day  all  that  summer.  It  was  slow.  Mighty,  but 
it  was  slow !  Sometim's  I  got  discouraged  an' 
thot  the  eend  was  never  comin'  an'  I'd  better 
give  up.  Then  she'd  drop  a  word  or  a  look  or 
somethin'  that  kind  o'  kep'  me  hangin'  on.  It 
seemed  like  she  was  gittin'  used  to  me.  We  sel- 
dom sayd  anything,  fer  she  was  a  thinkin'  woman. 
Fer  me,  I  remembered  how  Pap  allus  allowed  it 
was  less  dangerous  fer  a  man  to  put  a  boy  in 
charge  o'  his  sawmill  than  to  let  his  heart  run  his 
tongue.  So  I  set  an'  sayd  nawthin',  but  looked 
a  heap. 

"  It  was  October  'hen  I  concided  I'd  make  a 
trial,  fer  even  ef  nawthin'  come  of  it  no  petickler 
harm  'ud  be  done.  So  I  ast  her.  She  jest 
th'owed  back  her  head,  folded  her  arms  an* 
looked  at  me. 

"'Well?'  I  sais. 

"  She  looked  a  leetle  harder  an'  a  leetle  sterner. 
Her  eyes  kind  o'  snapped. 

"  «  Well  ?  '  I  sais  agin. 

"  '  I  hevn't  no  petickler  dislike,'  sais  she,  '  but 
ye  ain't  my  idee  of  a  man.  A  man  should  move 
sometim's.' 

"  '  Pet,'  I  sais,  '  I  know  I  ain't  much  on  leetle 
4 


50  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

things,  but  wait  tell  they's  big  things  to  do. 
Then  I'll  startle  ye  !  ' 

"  I  turned  an'  walked  out  o'  the  gate  an'  'long 
the  road  toward  home. 

"  She  didn't  hev  to  wait  long.  That  wery  night 
ez  I  set  on  the  porch,  I  seen  a  big  snake  o'  fire 
come  pokin'  his  head  over  the  mo'ntain  top  to 
the  north'ard  of  us.  Fer  a  time  he  laid  'round  in 
the  huckleberry  shelf  there,  rollin'  an'  floppin' 
about  the  bushes,  like  he  was  takin'  in  the  walley 
an'  wonderin'  what  was  the  easiest  way  down  the 
side  to  the  chestnut  flats  where  they  was  big  piles 
o'  leaves,  laurel  bushes  dry  ez  chips,  an'  hundreds 
o'  dead  trees,  all  waitin'  to  be  devoured.  Mighty 
fine  the  ole  snake  looked,  an'  a  heap  o'  pleasure 
it  give  me  watchin'  him. 

"  The  thin  line  o'  fire  begin  to  spread  ez  it  ad- 
wanced,  an'  soon  the  whole  side  o'  the  mo'ntain 
was  ablaze.  It  was  jest  a  solid  bed  o'  red.  Now 
an'  then  the  flames  'ud  jump  to  the  top  o'  some 
ole  pine,  the  tree  'ud  beat  wild  like  to  an'  fro, 
tryin'  to  shake  'em  off,  an*  showers  o'  sparks  'ud 
go  whirlin'  away  inter  the  sky. 

"  '  Mighty  souls  ! '  I  sais  to  meself.  '  It's  jest 
like  a  monstrous  big  band  festival  'hen  all  the 
boys  is  out  with  torches  an'  they  hes  a  bonfire 
an'  fireworks  an'  music.' 

"  Music  ?  I  hear  agin  the  rat-tat-tat  o'  the 
hammer  an'  the  shingle  nails  ;  an'  I  thot  o'  her. 

"  The  fire  hed  reached  the  flats.     It  was  movin' 


The  Missus.  51 

right  on  the  clearin'  where  she  was  all  alone,  fer 
Andy  was  workin'  in  the  sawmill  in  Windy  Gap. 

"  You  uns  otter  seen  me  an'  Major  skippin'  up 
the  lane  then.  They  was  no  loafin'  about  it. 
Never  oncet  did  we  stop  tell  we  reached  the  ridge. 
There  we  left  the  road  an'  cut  th'oo  the  fiel's. 
Soon  we  was  over  them  an'  in  the  woods.  We 
stumbled  on  an'  on,  tumblin'  over  lawgs  an' 
stones,  an'  fallin'  inter  bushes  tell  we  reached 
the  top  o'  the  hill  an'  looked  right  down  inter 
the  gut. 

"  There  we  stopped,  fer  we  was  spelled  like — 
me  an'  Major — an'  jest  stood  an'  stared.  The 
smoke  filled  the  whole  leetle  Avalley.  Th'oo  it 
we  could  see  the  glare  o'  the  burnin'  chestnut 
flats.  Big  tongues  o'  flame  was  shootin'  up  an' 
lickin'  'round  in  the  air.  We  could  hear  the 
snappin'  an*  crashin'  o'  the  trees.  We  could 
hear  the  scream  o'  the  wild  -  cats  ez  they  was 
tearin'  fer  the  open  country.  A  coon  run  right 
inter  Major,  an'  scampered  away  agin,  snarlin', 
but  the  hound  never  oncet  lifted  his  eyes  offen 
the  gut.  A  loud  snortin'  startled  me,  an'  a 
razor-backed  pig  come  gallopin'  over  the  hill. 
Then  they  was  a  bellerin*  an*  a  crashin'  o'  bushes, 
below  us.  The  broken-horned  cow  run  pantin' 
up  the  ridge,  an'  by  us  an'  on  th'oo  the  woods. 
'Hen  me  an'  Major  seen  her  we  jumped  for'a'd 
together  an1  tore  down  th'oo  the  blindin*  smoke 
to  the  clearin'. 


52  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

"  She  was  standin'  in  the  doorway,  her  head 
buried  in  her  apron,  cryin'  like  her  heart  'ud  break. 
The  minute  I  set  eyes  on  her  I  forgot  all  about 
the  fire  an'  thot  unly  o'  her.  I  jest  stood  there 
awkward  an*  looked  at  the  girl,  fer  I  was  spelled 
agin,  unly  worse. 

"  '  Pet,"  I  sais,  after  a  bit,  '  what's  wrong  ? ' 

"  '  Wrong,'  she  cries  th'oo  her  apron.  '  They's 
all  gone — the  cow,  the  pig,  the  chickens — gone 
fer  the  walley.  Soon  the  clearin'  '11  go  too.' 

"  With  that  she  raised  her  hand  an'  pinted 
th'oo  the  woods,  over  the  flats  to  the  solid  wall 
o'  fire. 

"Then  I  laughed.  An'  I  hed  the  right  to 
laugh,  fer  ez  I  looked  at  them  flames  dartin* 
among  the  trees  it  seemed  like  they  was  the  best 
friends  I  ever  had. 

"  '  It's  mean  to  cheat  sech  good  fellers  out  o' 
sech  a  nice  clearin','  I  sais  to  meself  ez  I  run  along 
the  wood  road  puttin'  the  torch  to  the  dry  leaves. 
'  It's  mean,  but  I  can't  spend  the  rest  o'  me  life 
settin'  on  the  pump-trough  watchin'  the  moon.' 

"An*  cheat  'em  I  did.  The  leaves  an'  the 
under-brush  cot  like  powder,  an'  the  counter-fire 
went  runnin'  over  the  flats  towards  the  mo'ntain 
to  tell  the  ole  fire  snakes  that  it  wasn't  no  uset  to 
try  to  git  to  the  clearin'  fer  they  was  no  path  to 
it  'cept  over  ashes. 

"  We  stood  there  in  the  wood-road  watchin'  it 
— Pet  on  one  side,  then  Major,  then  me.  Fer  a 


The  Missus.  53 

long  time  we  sayd  nawthin',  tell  I  couldn't  stand 
it  no  more. 

"  '  Pet,'  sais  I,  wery  abrupt,  '  do  you  think  now 
I'm  so  awful  slow  ? ' 

"  '  It  ain't  them  ez  runs  fastest  allus  goes  the 
straightest  an'  truest,'  she  answers. 

"  It  wasn't  wery  much  to  say.  Any  girl  might 
'a'  done  jest  the  same  thing.  But  from  the  way 
she  looked,  I  knowd  I'd  got  my  Missus." 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  Awf idlest  Thing. 

THE  Chronic  Loafer  sat  upon  the  anvil.  A 
leather  apron  was  tied  about  his  neck,  and  behind 
him  stood  the  Blacksmith,  nipping  at  his  great 
shock  of  hair  with  a  tiny  pair  of  scissors.  He 
was  facing  the  Tinsmith  and  the  Miller,  who  had 
climbed  up  on  the  carpenter  bench,  and  by 
twisting  his  neck  at  the  risk  of  his  balance,  he 
could  see  the  tall,  thin  man  standing  by  the  mule 
which  the  helper  was  shoeing.  The  stranger  had 
hair  that  reached  to  his  shoulders,  a  clean-shaven 
upper  lip,  a  long  beard  and  a  benign  aspect  that 
denoted  him  a  Dunkard.  He  had  been  telling  a 
few  stories  of  the  recent  events  in  Raccoon  Val- 
ley, whence  he  hailed. 

"  So  it  ain't  sech  a  slow-goin',  out-o'-the-way 
placet  ez  you  unsez  think — still,"  he  said. 

The  Blacksmith  thoughtfully  turned  to  address 
him. 

"  Well,  stranger " 

"  Ow — ow  !  "    cried   the   Loafer.      "  Is  you   a 
barber  or  a  butcher  ?  " 
54 


The  Awfullest  Thing.  55 

"  Sights ! "  exclaimed  the  worthy  smith.  "  Now 
that  was  a  jag  I  give  ye,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

He  resumed  his  task  with  redoubled  vigor. 
The  Loafer  closed  his  eyes  and  commenced  to 
sputter. 

"  Mighty  souls !  Go  easy.  Are  you  tryin'  to 
choke  me  ?  " 

"  Sights  !  "  said  the  other  in  apologetic  tones, 
"  I  didn't  notice.  Now  I  did  come  near  chokin' 
ye,  didn't  I  ?  I  was  interested  in  Raccoon  Wai- 
ley." 

Then  he  began  to  clip  very  slowly. 

The  Loafer  opened  one  eye  cautiously  and  fixed 
it  on  the  stranger. 

"  What  was  that  awful  thing  I  heard  ye  tellin' 
'bout  snakes,  jest  afore  I  was  smothered  under 
that  last  hay-load  o'  hair?" 

"  Oh,  hoop-snakes,"  replied  the  Dunkard.  He 
paused  from  his  work  of  brushing  the  flies  from 
the  mule's  legs  with  a  horse-tail.  "  We  hev  plenty 
o'  them  'round  our  placet.  They  don't  trouble 
no  one  tho'  tell  ye  bother  them.  Then  they're 
awful." 

He  turned  his  attention  to  the  beast's  hoofs  and 
began  sweeping  them.  A  smile  was  lurking  about 
the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

"  Did  ye  ever  run  agin  any  o'  these  hoop " 

The  Blacksmith's  query  was  cut  short  by  a  loud 
"Ouch!" 

"  See  here,"  said   the  Loafer  with    emphasis. 


56  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

"  Either  he'll  hev  to  quit  tellin'  stories  or  I  quit 
gittin'  me  hair  cut."  Then  to  the  stranger,  "  Is 
hoop-snakes  so  wery  pisonous?" 

"  Pisonous  !  "  replied  the  Dunkard.  "  Well,  I 
should  say  they  was.  One  o'  the  awfullest  things 
I  ever  seen  was  jest  the  ozzer  day  'hen  I  was 
workin'  in  the  fiel'.  All  o'  a  suddent  one  o'  these 
wipers  jumps  outen  the  hay  an*  strikes.  I  seen 
it  jest  in  time  to  step  aside.  Its  fangs  struck  the 
han'le  o'  me  fork." 

The  stranger  fell  to  brushing  flies  again. 

"  Well,  what  happened  that " 

"  There  ye  go,"  the  Loafer  cried,  ducking  for- 
ward and  almost  tumbling  from  the  anvil.  "  Keep 
your  eye  on  my  head  an'  not  on  every  Tom,  Dick 
an'  Harry  in  the  shop."  He  readjusted  himself 
on  his  perch  and  blew  away  a  bunch  of  hair  that 
had  settled  on  his  nose. 

"  What  happened  ? "  he  inquired,  fixing  his 
least  exposed  eye  on  the  man  from  Raccoon 
Valley. 

"  Quick  ez  a  flash  the  han'le  o'  my  pitch-fork 
swole  up  tell  it  was  thick  ez  my  arm." 

The  Dunkard  had  fixed  his  gaze  intently  on 
the  forefeet  of  the  mule  and  was  beating  them 
industriously  with  the  horse-tail. 

The  smith  wheeled  about  abruptly  and  gazed 
at  the  stranger. 

"  That  was  an  awful  thing  to  experience,"  he 
said.  But  there  was  a  ring  of  doubt  in  his  voice. 


The  Awfullest  Thing.  57 

The  Loafer  peered  over  his  shoulder  and  ven- 
tured. "  Yes.  It  was  the  worst  jag  yit.  But  I 
don't  mind.  I'm  gettin'  accustomed." 

The  rattle  of  the  pile  of  wheels  upon  which 
the  G.  A.  R.  Man  was  sitting  announced  that  the 
veteran  was  getting  restless  and  was  preparing  for 
action.  For  a  long  time  he  had  been  smoking  in 
silence,  listening  to  the  strange  tales  of  the  strange 
man  from  Raccoon  Valley.  Now  he  spoke. 

"  If  your  story  is  true  then  that  was  an  awful 
thing."  He  seemed  to  be  weighing  each  word. 
"  Still,  it  wasn't  so  awful  ez  a  thing  that  happened 
to  me  durin'  the  war." 

"  There  ye  are  agin,"  cried  the  Loafer.  "  Can't 
a  man  tell  a  story  'thout  you  tryin'  to  go  him  one 
better?  I  don't  believe  ye  was  in  the  war  any- 
way." 

"  Don't  I  git  a  pension  ?  ''  The  veteran  closed 
one  eye  and  stuck  out  his  lower  jaw  threaten- 
ingly. 

"  That  ain't  no  sign,"  ventured  the  Miller  from 
the  carpenter  bench. 

"  Well,  what  fer  a  sign  does  you  unsez  want  ?  " 
roared  the  G.  A.  R.  Man.  "  Does  you  expect  a 
felly  to  go  th'oo  life  carryin'  a  musket  ?  Ef  ye 
does " 

"  See  here,"  said  the  Blacksmith,  "  youse  fellys 
is  gettin'  that  mule  all  excited.  Ef  you're  goin' 
to  quarrel  you'd  better  go  outside  where  there's 
lots  o'  room  fer  ye  to  run  away  in." 


58  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

"  Now — now — now  !  "  said  the  Dunkard,  wag- 
ging the  horse-tail  at  the  company.  "  Don't  git 
fightin'.  Ef  he  knows  anything  awfuller  then  that 
hoop-snake  wenture  let  him  out  with  it." 

"  I  do,"  said  the  veteran.  "  But  I  don't  per- 
pose  to  hev  it  drug  outen  me  feryou  uns  to  hoot 
at." 

His  tone  was  pacific,  and  his  companions 
promised  not  to  hoot. 

"  The  awfullest  thing  I  ever  hed  to  do  with," 
he  said,  "  was  down  in  front  o'  Richmon'  durin' 
the  war.  Our  retchment — the  Bloody  Pennsyl- 
wany — was  posted  kind  o'  out  like  from  the  rest 
o'  the  army.  We  lay  there  fer  th'ee  weeks  doin' 
nawthin'  but  eatin',  sleepin',  drinkin'  an'  listenin' 
to  the  roar  o'  the  guns  over  to  the  front.  Still  it 
wasn't  pleasant,  fer  we  was  allus  expectin'  some- 
thin'  to  happen.  It's  a  heap  sight  better  to  hev 
somethin'  happenin'  then  to  be  waitin'  fer  it  to 
come.  But  final  it  come. 

"  One  mornin*  at  daybreak  the  guard  was  bein' 
changed,  an'  down  on  one  post  they  found  the 
picket  dead,  but  not  a  mark  was  they  on  him.  It 
looked  wery  queer.  We'd  seen  no  enemy  fer  a 
week  an'  yit  here  was  a  felly  killed  plumb  on  his 
post,  within  stone  th'ow  of  our  camp.  It  made 
the  boys  feel  clammy  like,  I  tell  ye,  an'  they 
wasn't  many  a-hankerin*  to  go  on  that  beat  at 
night.  It  was  a  lonely  placet,  anyway,  right  on 
the  edge  o'  a  leetle  clump  o'  woods  in  a  holler 


The  Awfullest  Thing.  59 

th'oo  which  run  a  creek,  gurglin'  in  a  way  that 
made  ye  creep  from  your  heel-taps  to  your  hat. 
But  the  post  hed  to  be  covered.  Ez  luck  'ud  hev 
it,  my  tent-mate,  Jim  Miggins,  ez  nicet  a  man  ez 
ever  shouldered  a  musket,  was  stationed  there. 
Next  mornin'  the  relief  goes  around,  an'  Jim  Mig- 
gins is  lyin'  dead  be  the  stream — not  a  mark  on 
him  nowhere.  Still  they  was  no  sign  o'  the 
enemy,  an'  we'd  a  clean  sweep  o'  fiel's  five  miles 
acrosst  the  country.  Mebbe  we  wasn't  puzzled." 

"  Why  didn't  the  general  put  a  whole  regiment 
in  them  woods  an'  stop  it?  "  asked  the  Loafer. 

"  That  wasn't  tactics,"  answered  the  veteran. 
"  Ye  may  think  you  knows  better  how  to  run  a  war 
then  our  general,  but  ye  don't.  It  wasn't  tactics, 
an'  even  ef  it  hed  ben  it  wasn't  the  way  the  Bloody 
Pennsylwany  done  things.  One  man  takes  the 
post  next  night  ez  usual,  young  Harry  Hopple 
o'  my  company,  a  lad  with  more  grit  then  a  horse 
that  cribs.  In  the  mornin' — Harry's  dead — no 
mark  on  him — no  sign  o'  the  enemy  nowhere. 
Don't  tell  me  that  wasn't  awfuller  then  hoop- 
snakes.  Why,  every  man  knowd  now  that  ef  he 
drawed  that  post  he  was  a  goner.  That  was  a 
recognized  rule — he  was  a  goner.  'Hen  a  felly 
gits  it  he  sets  down  an'  packs  up  his  duds ;  then 
he  writes  home  to  his  ma  or  his  girl,  sais  good-by 
to  the  boys  an'  goes  out.  Mornin'  comes — he's 
dead  be  the  stream — not  a  mark  on  him — no 
enemy  in  sight.  That  was  the  way  Andy  Young, 


6o  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

leetle  Hiram  Dole,  Clayton  Binks  o'  my  company, 
an'  a  dozen  others  was  tuk  off." 

"  I  can't  see,  nuther,  why  the  general  didn't 
fill  them  woods  with  soldiers,"  the  Miller  inter- 
rupted. 

"  Why !  It  wasn't  tactics  ;  that's  why,"  the  G. 
A.  R.  Man  replied  brusquely.  "  The  Bloody  Penn- 
sylwany  didn't  do  things  that  way.  No,  sir. 
The  general  he  cal'lated  that  we  couldn't  be  in 
that  placet  more'n  four  weeks  more,  which  would 
cost  jest  twenty-eight  men.  He  sais  it  wasn't 
square  to  order  a  man  there,  so  he  calls  fer  wol- 
unteers.  What  does  I  do?  I  wolunteers.  I 
goes  to  the  general  an'  sais  I'm  willin'  to  try  my 
luck  first.  An'  he  sais,  sais  he,  a-layin'  one  hand 
on  me  shoulder,  '  Me  man,  ef  we'd  a  few  more  like 
you,  the  war  'ud  soon  be  ended.  An' '  " 

"  Meanin'  the  other  side  'ud  'a'  licked,"  the 
Loafer  interposed. 

The  veteran  paid  no  attention  to  this  remark 
but  continued  :  "  He  promised  me  a  promotion  ef 
I  come  out  alive.'  That  night  I  packs  up  me 
things,  writes  a  letter  to  me  wife,  an'  sais  good-by 
to  the  boys.  Then  I  gits  me  gun,  pours  in 
th'ee  inches  o*  powder,  puts  in  a  wad  ;  next,  th'ee 
bullets  an'  a  wad  ;  next  a  half  dozen  buckshot 
an'  a  wad.  An'  on  top  o'  it  all,  jest  fer  luck,  I 
rammed  a  bit  o'  tobacky.  At  twelve  o'clock  I 
relieved  the  man  on  post  in  the  holler.  Mebbe  me 
heart  didn't  beat.  Mebbe  it  wasn't  awfuller  then 


The  Awfullest  Thing.  61 

hoop-snakes.  The  wind  was  sighin'  mournful 
th'oo  the  leaves ;  a  leetle  slice  o'  moon  was 
peekin'  down  th'oo  the  trees  'hen  the  clouds  give 
it  a  chancet ;  an'  there  gurglin'  along  was  the 
creek  be  which  I  expected  I'd  be  found  in  the 
mornin'  layin'  dead,  no  mark  on  me  nowhere. 

"  I'd  made  up  me  mind,  tho',  that  I  was  goin' 
to  come  out  of  it  whole  ef  I  could.  I  wasn't  no 
fool  to  set  down  an'  be  tuk  off  without  raisin'  a 
rumpus  about  it.  No,  sir.  I  kept  a  sharp  eye  in 
every  direction  ez  I  walked  to  an'  fro,  down  the 
holler  on  one  side,  up  on  the  other,  back  agin, 
an'  never  stoppin'.  It  come  one  o'clock,  an'  I 
give  number  eight  an'  all's  well.  I  hear  the  re- 
port go  'long  the  posts ;  then  everything  was 
quiet.  It  come  two  o'clock  an'  I  give  all's  well 
agin.  Hardly  was  everything  still  'hen  I  hear  a 
rustlin'  noise,  right  out  in  the  fiel'  beyant  the 
creek,  not  twenty  feet  away,  an'  yit  me  eyes  had 
ben  coverin'  that  petickler  spot  fer  an  hour  an' 
not  a  hate  hed  I  seen.  But  there  it  was,  a  stand- 
in'  hazy-like  in  the  dark,  the  awfullest  thing  I  ever 
laid  eyes  on." 

The  veteran  had  arisen  from  the  pile  of  wheels 
and  was  glaring  at  the  company,  "  What  does  I 
do  ?  Does  I  set  down  an'  be  tuk  off  like  the 
other  fellys?  No.  I  ups  an'  fires  an'  hits  it 
right  at  ween  the  eyes." 

He  resumed  his  seat  and  began  refilling  his 
pipe.  An  expectant  silence  reigned  in  the  shop. 


62  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

The  Blacksmith  waited  until  he  saw  the  veteran 
light  a  match  and  fall  to  smoking. 

"  Go  on,"  he  cried,  making  a  threatening  move- 
ment with  his  scissors. 

"  They  ain't  no  more  to  tell,"  said  the  G.  A.  R. 
Man  nonchalantly.  "  Wasn't  that  awfuller  then 
a  dozen  hoop-snakes  ?  " 

"  Well,  what  was  the  thing  ye  shot  ?  ''  asked  the 
Loafer,  slipping  off  the  anvil  and  facing  the  pile 
of  wheels. 

The  old  soldier's  clay  pipe  fell  from  his  hand 
and  crashed  into  a  hundred  pieces  on  the  floor. 
He  opened  wide  his  mouth  in  vain  effort  to  speak, 
but  the  words  failed  to  come. 

"  What  was  it  ?  "  shouted  the  Loafer. 

"  Well,  I'll  swan  ef  I  know,"  replied  the  veteran 
meekly. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  Wrestling  Match. 

THE  village  had  awakened  from  its  long  win- 
ter  of  sleep.  It  had  shaken  off  its  lethargy  and 
stepped  forth  into  the  light  and  sunshine  to 
take  up  life  in  the  free  air  until  the  months 
should  speed  around  and  the  harsh  winds  and  the 
snows  drive  it  back  again  to  a  close  kitchen  and 
a  stifling  stove.  The  antiquated  saw-mill  down 
by  the  creek  buzzed  away  with  a  vim  that  plainly 
told  that  the  stream  was  swollen  with  the  melted 
snows  of  the  winter  just  passed.  The  big  grist- 
mill bumped  and  thumped  in  deep  melodious 
tones,  as  though  it  were  making  an  effort  to  drown 
the  rasping,  discordant  music  of  its  small  but 
noisy  neighbor.  From  the  field  beyond  the  line 
of  houses  came  the  melancholy  "  haw,  gee,  haw, 
gee-up  "  of  the  man  at  the  plow  and  the  trium- 
phant calls  of  the  chickens,  as  they  discovered 
each  luscious  worm  in  the  newly-turned  furrow. 
A  few  robins  flitted  among  the  still  leafless 
branches  of  the  trees,  and  down  in  the  meadows 

63 


64  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

beyond  the  bridge  an  occasional  venturesome  lark 
or  snipe  whistled  merrily. 

The  double  doors  of  the  store  were  wide  open. 
Had  all  the  other  signs  of  spring  been  missing, 
this  fact  alone  would  have  indicated  to  the  know- 
ing that  if  the  snows  had  not  melted  and  the 
birds  not  come  back,  it  was  high  time  they  did. 
Those  doors  never  stood  open  until  the  Patriarch 
felt  it  in  his  bones  that  the  winter  was  gone  and 
he  could  with  safety  leave  the  side  of  the  stove 
within  and  migrate  to  the  long  bench  without,  to 
bask  in  the  sunshine.  This  morning  the  old  man 
arose  from  his  accustomed  chair  with  a  look  of 
wonderment  on  his  face.  He  swung  one  leg  to 
and  fro  for  a  moment,  then  rapped  on  his  knee 
gently  with  the  heavy  knob  of  his  cane.  He 
tapped  his  head  mysteriously  with  his  forefinger 
and  gazed  in  silence  out  of  the  window,  taking  in 
the  outward  signs. 

"  Boys,"  he  said  at  length,  "  it's  time  we  was 
gittin'  out  agin.  Spring  has  come." 

With  that  he  hobbled  toward  the  door. 

"  Good,  Gran'pap,"  said  the  Chronic  Loafer, 
rolling  off  the  counter  and  following. 

Then  the  Storekeeper  opened  both  doors. 

The  old  oak  bench  that  had  stood  neglected 
through  the  long  winter,  exposed  to  wind  and 
warping  rain,  gave  a  joyous  creak  as  it  felt  again 
on  its  broad,  knife-hacked  back  the  weight  of  the 
Patriarch  and  his  friends.  It  kicked  up  its  one 


The  Wrestling  Match.  65 

short,  hickory  leg  with  such  vehemence  as  to 
cause  the  Storekeeper  to  throw  out  his  hands,  as 
though  the  world  had  dropped  from  under  him 
and  he  was  grasping  at  a  cloud  for  support. 

u  Mighty  souls  !  "  he  cried,  when  he  had  recov- 
ered his  equilibrium  and  composure. 

"  My,  oh,  my ! "  murmured  the  old  man,  his 
face  beaming  with  contentment  as  he  sat  basking 
in  the  sun.  "  Don't  the  old  bench  feel  good  agin  ? 
Why,  me  an'  this  oak  board  hes  ben  buddies  fer 
nigh  onter  sixty  years." 

The  season  seemed  to  have  infused  new  life 
into  the  Chronic  Loafer  as  it  had  nature.  He  sud- 
denly tossed  off  his  coat,  with  one  leap  cleared  the 
steps  and  began  dancing  up  and  down  in  the  road. 

"  It  jest  makes  a  felly  feel  like  wrastlin', 
Gran'pap,"  he  shouted,  waving  his  arms  defiantly 
at  the  bench.  "  Come  on." 

The  Patriarch  stroked  his  long  beard  and  smiled 
amusedly  at  this  unexpected  exhibition  of  energy. 
The  Miller's  nose  curled  contemptuously  skyward, 
and  he  fell  to  beating  the  flour  out  of  his  coat  to 
show  his  indifference  to  the  challenge.  The  Tin- 
smith puffed  more  vigorously  at  his  pipe,  so  that 
the  great  clouds  of  smoke  that  swept  upward  from 
the  clay  bowl,  enveloped  the  Storekeeper  and 
caused  him  to  sneeze  violently. 

At  this  indisposition  on  the  part  of  the  four  to 
take  up  the  gauntlet  he  had  thrown  down,  the 
Loafer  became  still  more  defiant. 
5 


66  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

"  Hedgins  !  "  he  sneered.  "  You  uns  is  all 
afraid,  eh  ?  " 

"  Nawthin'  to  be  afraid  of,"  snapped  the  Miller. 
"  Simple  because  spring's  come,  ez  it's  ben  comin' 
ever  since  I  can  remember,  I  hain't  a-goin'  to  waller 
'round  in  a  muddy  road." 

The  School  Teacher  laid  his  left  hand  upon  his 
heart,  and  fixing  a  solemn  gaze  on  the  roof  of  the 
porch,  recited  :  "  In  the  spring  the  young  man's 
fancy  lightly  turns  to  thoughts  of  love." 

"  There  ye  go  agin,"  cried  the  Loafer,  "  quotin' 
that  ole  Fifth  Reader  o'  yourn." 

"  That,"  said  the  pedagogue,  "  is  Tennyson." 

"  I  thot  it  was  familar,"  exclaimed  the  Store- 
keeper. A  smile  crept  into  his  usually  vacant 
face,  and  he  slapped  the  Teacher  on  the  knee. 
"  You  mean  ole  Seth  Tennyson  that  runs  the 
Shingletown  creamery.  He's  a  cute  un." 

The  reply  was  a  withering,  pitying  glance. 

"  It  sounds  a  heap  more  like  Seth's  brother  Bill," 
ventured  the  Miller. 

"  Don't  git  argyin'  on  that,"  said  the  Loafer. 
"  There's  nawthin'  particular  new  or  good  in  it 
any  way.  The  main  pint  is  I  bantered  ye  an' 
you  uns  's  all  dead  skeert." 

"  Come,  come,"  said  the  Patriarch,  beating  his 
stick  on  the  floor  to  call  the  boaster  to  order. 
"  Ef  I  was  five  year  younger  I'd  take  your  ban- 
ter ;  I'd  druv  yer  head  inter  the  mud  tell  you'd 
be  afraid  of  showin'  up  at  the  store  fer  a  year,  fer 


The  Wrestling  Match.  67 

fear  some  un'd  shovel  ye  inter  the  road.  That's 
what  I'd  do.  I  hates  blowin',  I  do — I  hates 
blowin'.  Fur  be  it  from  me  to  blow,  particular 
ez  I  was  somethin'  of  a  wrastler  'hen  I  was  a 
young  un." 

"  I  bet  I  could  'a'  th'owed  you  in  less  time  'an 
it  takes  me  to  set  down,"  the  Loafer  said,  as  he 
seated  himself  on  the  steps  and  got  out  his  pipe. 

"  Th'owed  me,  would  you  ?  Well,  I'd  'a'  liked 
to  hev  seen  you  a-th'owin'  me."  He  shook  his 
stick  at  the  braggart.  "  Why,  don't  you  know 
that  'hen  I  was  young  I  was  the  best  wrastler  in 
the  walley ;  didn't  you  ever  hear  o'  the  great 
wrastlin'  me  and  Simon  Cruller  done  up  to 
Swampy  Holler  school-house  ?  " 

"Did  Noar  act  as  empire?"  asked  the  Loafer. 

"  What  does  you  mean  be  talkin'  of  Noar  an' 
sech  like  'hen  I'm  tellin'  of  wrastlin'  ?  Tryin'  to 
change  the  subject  I  s'pose,  eh  ? "  cried  the 
Patriarch,  reddening  with  anger.  "  Don't  you 
know " 

"  Tut-tut,  Gran'pap,"  said  the  Storekeeper, 
gently  taking  the  raised  cane  in  his  hand  and 
forcing  it  back  into  an  upright  position,  one  end 
resting  on  the  floor,  while  on  the  other  were  piled 
the  old  man's  two  fat  hands.  "  Don't  mind  him. 
Go  on  with  your  story." 

The  Patriarch's  wrath  passed  as  quickly  as  it 
had  come.  He  speedily  wandered  back  into  his 
youth,  and  soon  was  so  deep  in  the  history  of 


68  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

Simon  Cruller,  of  Simon  Cruller's  family  and  of 
Becky  Stump  as  to  be  completely  oblivious  to  his 
tormentor's  presence. 

"  Me  an'  Sime  Cruller  was  buddies,"  he  began 
at  length.  "  That  was  tell  we  both  kind  o'  set 
our  minds  on  gittin'  Becky  Stump.  You  uns 
never  seen  her,  eh  ?  Well,  mebbe  you  never  seen 
her  grave-stun.  It  stands  be  the  alderberry  bushes 
in  the  buryin'-groun',  an'  ef  you  hain't  seen  it  ye 
otter,  fer  then  ye  might  git  an  idee  what  sort  o'  a 
woman  she  was.  Pretty  ?  Why,  she  was  a  model, 
she  was — a  perfect  model.  Hair  ?  You  uns  don't 
often  see  sech  hair  nowadays  ez  Becky  Stump  hed 
— soft  an'  black  like.  Eyes  ?  Why,  they  sparkled 
jest  like  new  buggy  paint.  An'  mighty  souls,  but 
she  could  plough !  She  wasn't  none  of  your 
modern  girls  ez  is  too  proud  to  plough.  Many  a 
day  I  set  over  on  the  porch  at  our  placet  an' 
looked  down  acrosst  the  walley  an'  seen  her  a-step- 
pin'  th'oo  the  fiel',  an'  I  thot  how  I'd  like  to  hev 
one  han'le  while  she'd  hev  the  other,  an'  we'd 
go  trampin'  along  life's  furrow  together." 

"  Now  Gran'pap,  I  'low  you've  ben  readin' " 

"  Can't  you  keep  still  a  piece  ? "  roared  the 
Miller. 

The  Loafer  returned  to  his  pipe  and  silence. 

"  The  whole  thing  come  to  a  pint  at  a  spellin' 
bee  up  to  Swampy  Holler  school,"  continued  the 
Patriarch,  unmindful  of  the  interruption.  "  Becky 
Stump  was  there  an'  looked  onusual  pretty,  fer  it 


The  Wrestling  Match.  69 

was  cold  outside  an'  the  win'  hed  made  her  face 
all  red  on  the  drive  over  from  home.  Sime  was 
there,  too,  togged  out  in  store  clothes,  his  hair  all 
plastered  down  with  bear  ile,  an'  with  a  fine  silk 
tie  aroun'  his  collar  that  'ud  'a'  ketched  the  girls 
real  hard  hed  I  not  hed  a  prettier  one. 

"  Ez  luck  'ud  hev  it,  me  an'  Sime  Cruller  was 
on  opposite  sides.  It  wasn't  long  afore  I  seen 
he  was  tryin'  to  show  off  with  his  spellin'.  It's 
strange,  but  it's  a  failin'  with  men  that  ez  soon  ez 
they  gits  their  minds  set  on  a  particular  girl  they 
wants  to  show  off  before  her.  Why  most  of  'em 
taller  up  their  boots,  put  on  their  Sunday  clothes 
an'  go  walkin*  by  their  girl's  house  twicet  a  day 
fer  no  reason  at  all  but  jest  to  be  seen  lookin' 
togged  up  an'  han'som.  Men  allus  seems  to  want 
the  weemen  to  know  they  is  better  spellers,  or 
better  somethin'  else  'an  some  other  feller.  They 
ain't  no  reason  fer  it.  No  common-sense  woman 
is  goin'  to  merry  no  man  simple  because  he  can 
spell  or  wrastle  better  or  husk  more  corn  than 
anybody  else.  An'  yit  men'll  insist  on  showin' 
off  in  them  wery  things  'henever  they  gits  a 
chancet. 

"  It  didn't  take  me  five  minutes  to  see  that  Sime 
Cruller  was  tryin'  to  show  off  afore  Becky  Stump  ; 
was  tryin'  to  prove  to  her  that  he  was  a  smarter 
lad  than  me.  An'  it  didn't  take  me  that  long  to 
concide  I'd  hev  none  of  it.  I  seen  him  every 
time  he  spelled  a  hard  un,  look  triumphant  like  at 


70  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

her,  settin'  ez  she  was  down  be  the  stove  ;  then 
he'd  grin  at  me.  I  seen  it  all,  an'  I  spelled  ez  I 
never  spelled  afore,  an'  a  mighty  fine  speller  I  was, 
too,  'hen  I  was  young.  Mebbe  I  didn't  set  all 
over  Sime  Cruller.  Mebbe  I  didn't  spile  his 
showin'  off.  I  don't  jest  exactly  remember  what 
the  word  was,  but  it  must  'a'  ben  a  long  un  with  a 
heap  of  syllables,  fer  he  missed  it  an'  set  down 
lookin'  ez  mad  ez  a  bull  'hen  he  steps  inter  a 
bees'  nes'.  Three  others  missed  it,  an'  it  come  to 
me.  Why  do  you  know  them  letters  jest  rolled 
off  my  tongue  ez  easy.  You  otter  'a'  seen  the  look 
Becky  Stump  give  me  an'  the  look  Sime  give  me. 
Huh! 

"  When  intermission  come,  Sime  he  gits  off  in 
one  corner  an'  begins  blowin'  to  a  lot  of  the  boys. 
I  heard  him  talkin'  loud  'bout  me,  so  I  steps 
over.  He  sayd  it  was  all  a  mistake  ;  that  he  could 
beat  me  at  anything — spellin',  wrastlin'  or  fishin'. 
He  was  showin'  off  agin,  fer  he  talked  loud  like 
Becky  Stump  could  hear.  I  makes  up  me  mind 
I  wouldn't  stand  his  blowin'. 

"  '  See  here,  Sime  Cruller ! '  I  sais,  sais  I,  '  you 
uns  is  nawthin'  but  a  blow-horn,'  I  sais.  '  You 
claims  you  can  wrastle.  Why,  I  can  th'ow  you 
in  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell  it,  an'  if  you  steps 
outside  I'll  prove  me  words.' 

"  That  kinder  took  Sime  Cruller  down,  fer 
wrastlin'  was  his  speciality  an'  he'd  th'owed  every 
felly  in  the  walley  'ceptin'  me,  an'  him  an'  me 


The  Wrestling  Match.  71 

hed  never  clinched,  fer  I  wasn't  considered  much 
at  a  fight.  But  me  dander  was  up  an'  I  wasn't 
in  fer  lettin'  him  show  off. 

" '  You  th'ow  me  ! '  he  sais.  Then  he  begin  to 
laugh  like  he'd  die  at  the  wery  idee. 

"  With  that  we  went  outside,  follered  by  the 
rest  of  the  boys.  They  was  a  quarter-moon  over- 
head, an'  the  girls  put  two  candles  in  the  school- 
house  winders,  so,  with  the  snow,  we  could  see 
pretty  well. 

"  At  it  we  went.  Boys,  you  otter  'a'  ben  there  ! 
You  otter  'a' seen  it !  That  was  wrastlin' !  'Hen 
Sime  an'  me  clinched  I  ketched  him  'round  the 
waist  with  my  right  arm  an'  got  a  hold  of  the  strap 
of  his  right  boot  with  the  forefinger  of  me  left  hand. 
He  gits  his  left  arm  'round  my  neck  an'  down  my 
back  somehow,  an  'with  his  right  hand  tears  the  but- 
tons off  me  coat  an'  grabs  me  in  the  armhole  of 
me  waistcoat.  Over  we  goes,  like  two  dogs,  snarlin', 
an'  snappin',  while  the  boys  in  a  ring  around  us 
cheered,  an'  the  girls  crowdin'  the  schoolhouse 
porch  trembled  an'  screamed  with  fright.  We 
twisted,  we  turned,  we  rolled  over  an'  over  tell  we 
looked  like  livin'  snowballs.  Sime  got  off  the 
boot  I'd  a  holt  on,  an'  give  me  a  sudden  turn  that 
almost  sent  me  on  me  back.  But  I  was  quick. 
Mighty  souls,  but  I  was  quick  !  I  ups  with  me 
foot  an'  lands  me  heel  right  on  his  chist,  an'  he 
went  flyin'  ten  feet  inter  a  snow-bank,  kerryin'  me 
coat-sleeve  with  him.  He  was  lookin*  up  at  the 


72  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

moon  'hen  I  run  up  to  him,  an'  I'd  hed  him  down, 
but  he  turned  over,  an'  they  wasn't  nawthin*  fer 
me  to  do  but  to  set  on  his  back.  I  'low  I  must  'a' 
set  there  fer  half  an  hour,  restin'  an'  gittin'  me 
wind.  Anyway,  I  was  so  long  I  almost  forgot  I 
was  wrastlin',  fer  he  give  me  a  sudden  turn,  an' 
'fore  I  knowd  it  he  hed  the  waist  holt  an'  hed 
almost  th'owed  me. 

"  But  I  was  quick.  Mighty  souls,  but  I  was 
quick !  I  keeps  me  feet  an*  gits  one  hand  inter 
his  waistcoat  pocket  an'  hung  to  him.  'Henever 
you  wrastles,  git  your  man  be  the  boot  strap  or 
the  pocket,  an'  you  has  the  best  holt  they  is.  Ef 
I  hedn't  done  that  I  might  not  'a'  ben  here  to- 
day. But  I  done  it,  an'  fer  a  full  hour  me  an' 
Sime  Cruller  rolled  'round,  even  matched,  Time 
an'  agin  I  got  sight  o'  Becky  Stump  standin'  on 
the  porch,  her  hands  gripped  together,  her  face 
pale,  her  eyes  almost  poppin'  outen  her  head,  she 
was  watchin'  us  so  hard,  an'  the  wery  sight  of  her 
urged  me  on  to  inhuman  efforts.  It  seemed  to 
hev  the  same  'feet  on  Sime.  Me  heart  beat  so 
hard  it  made  me  buttons  rattle.  Still  I  kep'  at  it. 
Sime  was  so  hot  it  was  fer  me  jest  like  wrastlin' 
with  a  stove,  an*  still  we  kep'  at  it.  Then  all  of  a 
sudden — it  was  two  hours  after  we  hed  fust 
clinched — everything  seemed  to  swim — I  couldn't 
feel  no  earth  beneath — I  only  knowd  I  was  still 
holdin'  onto  Sime — then  I  knowd  nawthin'. 

"  'Hen  I  come  to,  I  was  lay  in'  be  the  school- 


The  Wrestling  Match.  73 

house  stove,  an'  Becky  Stump  was  leanin'  over 
me  rubbin'  a  snowball  acrosst  me  forehead.  The 
other  folks  was  standin*  back  like,  fer  they  seemed 
to  think  that  after  sech  an  exhibition  it  was  all 
settled  an'  they  didn't  want  to  disturb  us. 

"  '  Becky,'  I  whispers,  '  did  I  win  ?  ' 

"  '  You  did,'  she  sais.  '  You  both  fainted  at 
oncet,  but  you  fainted  on  top.' 

"  '  An'  now  I  s'pose  you'll  hev  me,'  I  sais,  fer  it 
seemed  like  they  was  somethin'  in  her  eyes  that 
kinder  urged  me  on. 

"  She  was  quiet  apiece ;  an'  then  she  leans  down 
an'  answers,  '  Do  you  think  I  wants  to  merry  a 
fien'?'" 

The  Patriarch  ceased  his  narration  and  fell  to 
stroking  his  beard  and  humming  softly. 

"  Well  ?  "  cried  the  Loafer. 

"  Well  ?  "  retorted  the  old  man. 

"  Did  she  ever  merry  ?  " 

The  Patriarch  shook  his  head. 

"  Go  look  at  the  grave-stun,"  he  said,  "  an'  on 
it  you'll  see  wrote :  '  Here  lies  Becky  Stump. 
Her  peaceful  soul's  at  rest ! ' ' 


CHAPTER  VII. 

The  Tramp's  Romance. 

"  WAS  you  ever  dissypinted  in  love  ?  "  inquired 
the  Chronic  Loafer  of  the  Tramp. 

A  light  summer  shower  had  driven  the  traveller 
to  the  shelter  of  the  store  porch  for  a  few  hours, 
and  he  was  stretched  easily  along  the  floor  with 
his  back  resting  against  a  pillar.  In  reply  to  the 
question  he  brought  the  butt  of  his  heavy  hickory 
stick  down  on  the  loose  boards  with  such  vigor 
as  to  raise  a  small  cloud  of  dust  from  the  cracks, 
and  cried,  "  Wull,  have  I !  " 

"Come  tell  us  about  it,  ole  feller,"  said  the 
Tinsmith. 

"  Not  muchy." 

"  We  ain't  surprised  at  your  hevin'  ben  dis- 
sypinted," said  the  Loafer,  "but  it's  your  per- 
sumption  catches  me.  What's  her  name  ?  " 

"  I  called  her  Emily  Kate,"  answered  the 
Tramp,  wiping  one  of  his  eyes  with  his  sleeve. 
"  She'll  allus  be  Emily  Kate  to  me,  though  to 
other  folks  she  ain't  nothin'." 

"  A  truly  remarkable  state  of  affairs,"  said  the 
74 


The  Tramp's  Romance.  75 

Teacher.  "  I  presume  that  the  young  woman 
must  have  been  a  mere  chimera,  a  hallucination." 

"  Mebbe  she  was ;  mebbe  she  wasn't,"  the 
traveller  replied.  "  I  never  knowd  her  well 
enough  to  git  acquainted  with  all  her  qualities. 
In  fact  I've  allus  kept  Emily  Kate  pretty  much 
to  meself  an'  have  never  said  nothin'  'bcut  her  to 
nobody.  But  youse  gentlemens  asts  so  many 
questions,  I  s'pose  yez  might  ez  well  know  the 
hull  thing.  'Bout  three  year  ago  I  was  workin' 
th'oo  this  valley  toward  the  Sussykehanner  River, 
an'  one  fine  day — it  was  one  o'  them  days  when 
you  feels  like  settin'  down  an'  jest  doin'  nothin' — 
I  come  th'oo  this  very  town  an'  went  up  the 
main  road  'bout  two  mile  tell  I  reached  Shale 
Hill.  I  never  knowd  why  I  done  it — it  must  'a' 
ben  fate — but  I  switched  off  onter  the  by-road 
there  'stead  o'  stickin'  to  the  pike.  I  walked  on 
'bout  a  mile  an'  didn't  meet  no  one  or  see  no 
houses  tell  I  come  to  a  farm  wit'  a  peach  orchard 
sout'  o'  the  barn. 

"  They  was  a  nice  grassy  place  under  an  apple 
tree  on  the  other  side  the  road,  an'  ez  it  was  one  o' 
them  warm,  lazy,  summer  days  I  made  up  me  min' 
to  rest,  an'  lay  down  there.  Ye  kin  laugh  at  folks 
who  allus  talks  weather,  but  I  tell  ye  it  does  a 
powerful  sight  wit'  a  man.  I  know  ef  that  had  'a' 
ben  a  rainy  day  I'd  never  had  that  fairy-core,  ez 
the  French  calls  it,  that  hit  me  then  an'  come 
near  spoilin'  me  life. 


76  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

"  I  was  layin'  there  watchin'  the  clouds  over- 
head, an'  listenin'  to  the  plover  whistlin'  out  in 
the  fiel's,  an'  to  the  tree-frawg  bellerin'  up  in  the 
locus',  when  all  of  a  sudden  I  see  a  blue  gleam  in 
an  apple  tree  in  the  orchard  'crosst  the  way.  I 
watched  it  an'  pretty  soon  made  out  that  it  was  a 
woman.  She  was  settin'  there  quiet  an'  still, 
like  she  was  readin',  an'  down  below  I  see  the  top 
of  a  chicking  coop  an'  hear  the  ole  hen  cluckin'. 
I  couldn't  see  much  fer  the  leaves  an'  didn't  git 
sight  o'  her  face,  but  I  made  out  the  outlines  o' 
that  blue  caliker  dress  an'  jest  kind  o'  drank  'em 
in. 

"  It  was  the  day  done  it  all.  'Fore  I  knowd  it 
I  begin  to  imagine  the  face  that  must  'a'  fit  that 
form.  I  pictured  her  like  the  girls  that  rides  the 
mowin'  machines  in  the  agricult'ral  advertisemen' 
chromos — yeller  hair  an*  all.  I  wanted  to  try  an' 
git  sight  o'  her  face  but  didn't  dast,  fer  she'd  'a' 
seen  me  an'  that  'ud  a  spoilt  my  chancet.  So  I 
lay  there  dreamin*  like,  an'  'fore  I  knowd  it  I 
could  think  o'  nothin'  but  that  girl  in  the  tree, 
who  I  figured  must  'a'  ben  a  heap  better-lookin' 
than  a  circus  lady. 

"  It  come  sundown,  an'  ez  I  had  to  hustle  to 
git  supper  I  dragged  meself  together  an'  moved  on. 
I  went  up  the  valley  fer  three  days  an'  got  'bout 
thirty  mile  nearer  the  river.  But  I  didn't  have 
no  peace.  The  hull  time  I  was  thinkin*  o'  nothin' 
but  the  girl  in  the  blue  caliker  dress.  I  never  felt 


The  Tramp's  Romance.  77 

so  queer  before,  an'  didn't  know  jest  what  to  do. 
Last  I  decided  I'd  hev  to  go  back  an'  hev  another 
look  at  her,  so  I  turned  'round  an*  kivered  me 
tracks. 

"  'Bout  one  day  later,  in  the  afternoon,  I  reached 
the  orchard.  Hanged  ef  she  wasn't  there  an'  set- 
tin'  in  a  tree  closer  to  the  road !  I  didn't  dast 
go  near  her,  fer  I  knows  how  'fraid  the  weemen  is 
of  us  men.  But  I  slid  inter  me  ole  placet,  an'  lay 
there  watchin'  her  blue  dress  wavin'  in  the  breeze. 
Then  when  I  seen  ez  how  she'd  changed  trees,  I 
begin  to  think  mebbe  she'd  seen  me  an'  moved 
up  a  tree  nearer  the  road  kinder  so  ez  we'd  be 
closer." 

The  Tramp's  voice  broke  and  he  paused. 

"  Now  quit  yer  blubberin',  Trampy,"  cried  the 
Loafer,  "  an'  git  to  the  end  o'  this  here  yarn." 

The  vagrant  rubbed  his  sleeve  across  his  eyes 
and  continued, 

"  Wull,  ez  I  lay  there  watchin'  her  so  still  an* 
quiet,  I  begin  to  think.  I  wondered  what  her 
name  must  be,  an'  'lowed  it  orter  be  a  pretty  one. 
I  kind  o'  thought,  bein'  ez  I  didn't  know  it,  I 
might  give  her  one — the  prettiest  I  could  git  up. 
I  racked  me  brain  an'  final'  sot  on  Emily  Kate — 
that  sounded  high-toned.  Then  I  begin  to  wonder 
who'd  be  so  fort'nit  ez  ter  git  Emily,  an'  cussed 
meself  for  bein'  sich  a  bum.  I  kind  o'  thought  I 
might  reform,  but  last  I  'lowed  ef  she'd  take  me 
without  me  havin'  to  reform,  it  'ud  be  a  sight 


78  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

pleasanter  all  'round.  I  see  how  she'd  moved 
up  a  tree  an'  kind  o'  wondered  ef  she'd  notice 
me.  The  more  I  thought  on  it,  the  worse  I  got. 
I  begin  to  think  mebbe  ef  I  cleaned  up  I  wouldn't 
be  so  bad — in  fact  a  heap  better  'an  lots  o'  folks 
I  knows.  By  the  time  it  come  sunset  I  had  con- 
cided  to  resk  it,  an'  was  thinkin'  o'  crawlin'  over 
the  fence  an'  interducin'  meself.  But  me  heart 
failed  me.  I  put  it  off  tell  the  next  day  an'  slid 
over  the  fiel's  to  a  barn  an'  spent  the  night. 

"  I  didn't  eat  no  breakfas'.  I  couldn't.  When 
it  come  sun  up  I  went  down  to  the  spring  an' 
washed  up.  Then  I  cut  fer  the  orchard,  tendin' 
to  wait  tell  she  come.  I  didn't  expect  she'd  be 
there  so  airly  sence  she'd  likely  do  up  the  breakfas' 
dishes. 

"  I  climbed  the  fence  inter  the  road.  Then 
what  a  sight  I  seen  !  I  near  yelled.  A  great  big 
feller  had  his  arm  'round  her  wais'.  She  was  layin' 
all  limp  like,  wit'  her  head  pitched  for'a'd  so  I 
couldn't  see  it,  an'  her  feet  was  draggin'  th'oo 
the  timothy,  fer  the  man  was  pullin*  her  'long 
down  the  orchard.  First  I  was  fer  runnin'  to  her 
resky,  but  I  thought  mebbe  I'd  better  wait  tell 
I  see  what  come  of  it. 

"  The  big  feller,  he  pulled  her,  all  limp,  down 
to  the  other  side,  an'  leaned  her  up  agin  a  tree, 
an'  hit  her  a  punch  wit*  his  fis'.  The  blue  caliker 
sunbonnet  drooped.  Then  he  jumped  the  fence 
an'  started  away  over  the  meddy. 


The  Tramp's  Romance.  79 

"  Me  heart  was  a-thumpin'  awful.  I  waited 
tell  he  was  out  o'  sight.  Then  I  slipped  down  to 
where  Emily  Kate  lay  half  dead  agin  the  tree.  I 
seen  a  chicking  coop  there  an'  hear  the  ole  hen 
cluckin'.  I  stepped  up  an'  raised  the  girl's  head. 
She  had  a  straw  face  an'  was  keepin*  hawks  away 
from  them  chickings.  My  Emily  Kate  was  a 
scare " 

The  Tramp's  voice  grew  husky  and  he  faltered. 

"  See  here,  you  ole  fool,"  cried  the  Loafer,  "  it's 
quit  rainin'  this  ten  minutes  an'  you've  kep'  me 
from  splittin'  to-morrer's  wood  with  yer  bloomin* 
story." 

The  wanderer  picked  up  his  bandana  and 
stick,  arose  and  replied, 

"  Youse  gentlemen  'sisted  that  I  tell  ye  'bout 
it.  I  tol'  ye.  Now  I  must  be  movin'." 

A  moment  later  he  disappeared  around  the 
bend  in  the  road  just  beyond  the  mill. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Ambition — An  Argument. 


"  I  KNOW  that  I  travels  slow,"  said  the  Chronic 
Loafer,  "  but  'hen  a  felly  travels  fast,  it  keeps  him 
so  busy  watchin'  the  horses,  he  sees  mighty  leetle 
o'  the  country  an'  gits  awful  jolted  besides.  It's 
a  heap  sight  better  to  go  slow,  stoppin*  at  a 
stream  to  fish  trout,  or  in  the  woods  to  take  a 
bang  at  a  coon,  or  at  the  store  fer  a  leetle  discus- 
sion— it's  a  heap  sight  easier." 

He  was  sitting  at  the  end  of  the  porch/his  back 
against  the  pillar;  one  leg  stretched  along  the 
floor,  the  bare  foot  resting  on  its  heel  and  wig- 
gling to  and  fro  in  unison  with  his  words  ;  the 
other  leg  hanging  down  and  swinging  backward 
and  forward  like  a  pendulum. 

The  Patriarch  had  the  end  of  the  bench  nearest 
him.  Next  sat  the  Miller  meditatively  chewing 
his  forefinger.  Then  there  was  the  Tinsmith 
smoking  thoughtfully,  and  beside  him,  a  stranger. 

This  last  person  was  a  young  man.     His  jaunty 
80 


Ambition— An  Argument.  81 

golf  cap,  fresh  pink  shirt,  spotless  duck  trousers 
and  canvas  shoes  marked  him  as  a  barbarian.  In 
fact  he  had  swooped  down  from  the  mountains 
to  the  north  but  a  few  days  before  on  a  bicycle, 
taken  board  at  the  Shoemaker's,  fixed  a  short 
briar  pipe  between  his  teeth  and  seated  himself 
on  the  bench.  At  first  he  had  been  coldly  re- 
ceived. The  Store  was  suspicious.  It  closed  its 
mouth  and  waited  until  it  could  find  out  some- 
thing of  the  character  of  the  newcomer.  He  vol- 
unteered no  explanation,  but  sat  and  smoked. 
The  Store  grew  desperate.  At  length  it  could 
stand  the  suspense  no  longer  and  nudged  the 
stranger  and  inquired  if  he  might  not  be  a  detec- 
tive ?  The  stranger  laughed,  said  no,  and  busied 
himself  with  the  making  of  smoke  rings.  Three 
days  passed.  Then  the  Store  allowed  maybe  he 
might  not  be  a  drummer?  No,  he  was  not  a 
drummer.  The  mystery  was  deepening.  There 
were  two  things  he  was  not.  Now  the  Store 
smoked  and  smoked,  and  watched  the  moun- 
tains many  days,  until  it  had  drawn  an  inspiration 
therefrom.  It  winked  at  the  young  man  and 
guessed  he  had  run  away  from  his  wife.  But  the 
stranger  answered  that  he  had  never  married. 

Knowing  that  he  was  not  a  detective,  a  drum- 
mer, or  a  fugitive  from  some  domestic  hearth- 
stone, the  Store  felt  that  it  had  learned  something 
of  his  history  and  could  afford  to  melt  just  a  little, 
So  now  it  was  talking  before  him. 


82  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

As  the  Loafer  finished  speaking,  the  stranger 
drew  forth  a  leather  case,  carefully  tucked  his  pipe 
away  in  it  and  returned  it  to  his  pocket.  Then 
he  remarked  calmly,  "  I  cannot  agree  with  you. 
What  would  the  world  be  to-day  if  all  men  held 
such  ideas  as  you  ?  " 

The  Patriarch,  the  Miller  and  the  Tinsmith 
pricked  up  their  ears  and  gazed  at  the  speaker. 
At  last  the  truth  would  be  out. 

The  Loafer  saw  his  opportunity. 

"  What  do  you  do  fer  a  livin'  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I'm  a  college  man,"  was  the  bland  reply. 

Drawing  his  pendulum  leg  up  on  the  porch,  the 
Loafer  clasped  both  knees  in  his  arms.  "  Well," 
he  drawled,  "  I  'low  ef  you  is  a  kawledge  man, 
they  ain't  nawthin'  young  enough  to  be  a  kaw- 
ledge boy,  is  they  ?  " 

The  Patriarch  dropped  his  cane,  clasped  his 
hands  to  his  fat  sides,  leaned  back  so  that  his 
head  rested  against  the  wall,  and  gagged.  The 
Tinsmith  and  the  Storekeeper  laughed  so  loud 
that  the  School  Teacher  tossed  aside  the  county 
paper  and  came  running  to  the  door  to  inquire 
what  the  joke  was. 

"  I'm  blessed  ef  I  know,"  said  the  Miller,  he  be- 
ing the  only  one  of  the  party  who  had  retained 
his  powers  of  speech.  He  laid  a  hand  on  the 
student's  knee  and  asked,  "  Did  you  make  a 
joke  ?  " 

But  the  young  man  had  dived  into  his  pocket 


Ambition— An  Argument.  83 

and  got  out  his  pipe  again,  and  was  busy  filling  it 
and  lighting  it  and  smoking  it,  by  this  act  asserting 
his  manhood.  He  now  joined  good-naturedly  in 
the  laughter. 

"  How  much  does  a  kawledge  man  git  a  week  ?  " 
asked  the  Loafer.  "  It  must  pay  pretty  well, 
jedgin'  from  your  clothes." 

"  He  gets  nothing,"  was  the  reply.  "  I  am 
studying,  preparing  myself  for  my  work  in  life." 

"  My,  oh,  my ! "  murmured  the  Patriarch. 
"  Preparin' — preparin'  ?  Why,  'hen  I  was  your 
age  I  was  prepared  long  ago.  I  \vas  in  full, 
complete  charge  o'  me  father's  saw-mill." 

The  student  was  nettled,  not  at  the  reflection 
on  his  own  intellectual  attainments  which  this  re- 
mark seemed  to  contain,  but  he  felt  that  in  this 
company  he  was  the  representative  of  modern 
ideas,  of  education  and  enlightenment.  The 
Middle  Ages  were  attacking  the  Nineteenth  Cen- 
tury, and  it  was  his  duty  to  combat  the  forces 
of  Ignorance.  So  he  removed  his  briar  from 
his  mouth  and  sent  a  ring  of  smoke  floating 
away  on  the  listless  air.  He  watched  it  intently 
as  it  passed  out  from  the  shelter  of  the  porch  into 
the  great  world,  and  grew  broader  and  bigger  and 
finally  disappeared  altogether.  There  was  some- 
thing very  impressive  in  the  young  man's  act. 
His  voice  had  fallen  an  octave  when  he  turned  to 
address  the  Patriarch. 

"  Had  I  chosen  a  saw-mill  as  my  career,  I  think 


84  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

I  too  should  have  long  since  been  prepared  for 
it.  But  to  fit  oneself  for  work  in  the  world  as  a 
lawyer,  a  doctor,  a  minister,  requires  preparation. 
It  takes  years  of  study." 

"How  many?"  asked  the  Loafer,  turning 
around  and  eying  the  student  over  his  knees. 

"  Well,  I'll  be  twenty-four  when  I  get  through 
studying  and  become  a  lawyer." 

"  Then  what'll  ye  do  ?  " 

"  I'll  work  at  my  profession  and  make  money." 

"  How  long'll  ye  do  that?  " 

"  Why,  I  don't  know  particularly — till  I  have  a 
fair  fortune,  I  suppose." 

"  How  old'll  ye  be  then  ?  " 

"  Around  sixty,  I  guess." 

"  Then  what'll  ye  do  ?  " 

"  What  does  every  man  do  eventually  ?     Die." 

"  Then  ye've  spent  all  them  years  learnin'  to 
die,  eh?  Does  a  felly  go  off  any  easier  ef  his 
head  is  crammed  full  of  algebray  or  physical 
g'ography?  Mighty  souls!  Why  my  pap 
couldn't  'a'  tol'  ye  ef  ye  dewided  an  apple  in  two 
halves  an'  et  one  how  many  was  left,  yit  'hen  his 
time  come  he  jest  emptied  out  his  ole  pipe,  leaned 
back  in  his  rocker,  stretched  his  feet  toward  the 
fire  an'  went." 

"  Well,  what  are  you  tryin'  to  prove  anyway  ?  " 
asked  the  Teacher,  who  had  seated  himself  on  an 
egg-crate.  His  furrowed  brow,  one  closed  eye  and 
forefinger  resting  on  his  chin,  showed  that  he  was 


Ambition— An  Argument.  85 

struggling  hard  to  catch  the  thread  of  the 
discussion. 

"  I  was  jest  sayin'  that  the  best  life,  the  sensi- 
blest  life,  was  the  slow  easy-goin'  one,  'hen  this 
young  man  conterdicted  me,"  said  the  Loafer. 

His  air  was  very  condescending  and  it  angered 
the  student.  The  inquisition  just  ended  had  left 
him  in  a  rather  equivocal  position,  he  could  see  by 
the  way  the  Patriarch  and  the  Tinsmith  nodded 
their  heads. 

"  You  misunderstood  me,"  he  said.  "  You  have 
shown,  I  see,  that  from  a  purely  selfish  standpoint, 
ambition  is  senseless.  In  the  end  the  man  who 
works  hard  is  no  better  off  than  the  man  who 
loafs.  But  remember  there  is  another  call — 
duty." 

"That's  the  idee,"  cried  the  Teacher.  "The 
sense  of  duty  moves  the  world  to " 

"  Hoi'  on  !  "  the  Loafer  exclaimed.  "  Hoi'  on ! 
Duty  to  who  ?  " 

"  Why,  duty  to  society,"  the  student,  answered. 
"  Every  man  is  endowed  with  certain  faculties, 
and  it  is  his  duty  to  use  those  faculties  to  the 
best  of  his  ability  for  the  advancement  of  himself 
and  his  fellow-man." 

"  Certainly— certainly,"  said  the  pedagogue. 
"  It's  the  old  parable  of  the  talents  all  over  agin." 

"  Yes,  they  is  some  argyment  in  that,"  said  the 
Loafer.  "  Yit  they  ain't.  Pap  allus  used  to  say 
that  too  many  fellys  wasspeckilatin'  in  their  talents 


86  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

an'  'hen  their  employer  called  an  accountin'  they 
was  only  able  to  pass  in  a  lot  o'  counterfeit  coin." 

"  But  suppose  all  men  sat  down  and  folded 
their  hands  and  lived  as  you  would  have  them. 
What  would  happen  ?  "  asked  the  college  man. 

"  D'ye  see  y°n  pastur*  down  there  ? "  The 
Loafer  pointed  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder,  in- 
dicating the  meadow  below  the  bridge,  where  half 
a  score  of  cattle  were  grazing. 

The  student  nodded.  The  bony  forefinger  was 
pointed  at  him  now. 

"  Well,  now  s'posin'  ye  was  a  hog  an' " 

"  I  object  to  such  a  supposition,"  was  the  angry 
retort. 

"  Well  then  s'posin',  jest  fer  argyment — ye 
know  ye  can  s'pose  anything  'hen  ye  argy — s'pos- 
in' ye  was  a  cow.  Yon  fiel'  '11  pastur'  ten  head  o' 
cattle  comf'table  all  summer,  'lowin'  they  is  easy- 
goin'  an'  without  no  ambition.  Now.  you  uns  gits 
the  high-flyin'  idee  ye  must  dewelop  your  heaven- 
given  faculties  fer  the  benefit  o'  your  su^ferin' 
fellys.  The  main  talent  a  cow  has  is  that  o' 
eatin' ;  so  ye  dewelop  it  be  grazin'  night  an'  day. 
'Hen  the  other  cows  is  friskin'  up  an'  down  the 
meadow  or  splashin*  'round  the  creek,  you  are 
nibblin'  off  the  choice  grass  an'  digestin'  all  the 
turnip  tops  ye  can  reach  th'oo  the  holes  in  the 
fence.  Mebbe  you'll  git  to  be  a  slicker  animal, 
but  fer  the  life  o'  me,  I  can't  see  how  you're  bene- 
fitin'  the  rest  o'  the  cattle." 


Ambition — An  Argument.  87 

"  See  here,"  interrupted  the  Miller,  "  you  are 
the  onsenselessest  argyer  I  ever  set  eyes  on.  Ye 
starts  out  on  edycation  an'  lands  up  on  cattle- 
raisin'." 

"  No — no,  you  misunderstand  him,"  said  the 
student.  "  His  method  of  argument  is  all  right, 
but  it  seems  that  the  figure  is  bad.  It  doesn't 
quite  apply.  Every  man  who  leads  an  industri- 
ous, upright  life,  every  man  who  in  so  doing  pros- 
pers and  raises  himself,  does  an  incalculable  service 
to  the  community  in  which  he  lives.  His  example 
inspires  others." 

"  I  jedge,  then,"  replied  the  Loafer,  "  that  this 
here  petickler  cow  we've  ben  speakin'  of,  in  eatin' 
night  an'  day  an'  fattenin'  itself,  is  elewatin'  the 
rest  o'  the  cattle  be  its  example.  They'll  be  en- 
couraged to  quit  sloshin'  'round  the  creek  an' 
friskin'  'bout  the  pastur'  an'  '11  be  after  grass  night 
an'  day,  an'  the  grass'll  git  skeercer  an'  they'll 
take  to  buttin'  one  another,  an'  your  efforts  at 
elewatin'  'em  ends  in  turnin'  a  peaceful  pastur' 
inter  a  battle-fiel'." 

The  student  sent  three  rings  of  smoke  whirling 
from  his  mouth  in  rapid  succession,  but  he  made 
no  reply. 

"  Did  ye  ever  hear  o'  Zebulon  Pole  ? "  asked 
the  Loafer. 

"  I  never  did.  But  what  has  he  to  do  with 
this  matter  ?  " 

"  Zebulon  Pole  was  a  livin'  answer  to  it,  he  was. 


88  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

He  used  to  have  a  shanty  up  in  Buzzard  Walley 
near  me  an*  Pap,  an'  was  young  an'  full  o'  all 
them  noble  idees.  No — he  wasn't  allus  full  of 
'em.  They  hed  ben  a  time  'hen  he  was  easy-goin' 
an'  happy,  askin'  nawthin'  better  o'  his  Maker 
than  a  trout  stream,  a  hook  an'  a  line,  an*  a  place 
to  borry  a  shotgun.  All  o'  a  sudden  he  bloomed 
out  full  o'  ambition  ?n'  high  notions.  He  hed  a 
call.  He  was  wastin'  his  life  loafin'  'long  the 
creeks  or  settin'  day  after  day  on  a  lawg,  whistlin' 
fer  wild  turkeys.  The  world  needed  Zebulon 
Pole,  an'  he  answered  by  comin'  out  ez  candidate 
fer  superwisor.  He  was  elected.  From  that  day 
the  citizens  o'  our  township  hed  no  peace.  They'd 
allus  ben  used  to  goin'  out  on  the  roads  in  the 
spring,  stickin'  their  shovels  in  the  groun',  leanin' 
on  'em  an'  gittin'  paid  a  dollar  a  day  fer  it.  The 
new  superwisor  was  ambitious,  an'  the  good  ole 
system  o'  makin'  roads  seemed  a  thing  o'  the 
past.  So  the  boys  put  their  heads  together  an' 
concided  that  a  man  o'  Pole's  parts  was  too  good 
fer  his  place  an'  should  hev  a  higher  an'  nobler 
job.  They  made  him  a  school-director,  an'  leaned 
on  their  shovels  oncet  more  an'  drawed  a  dollar  a 
day  fer  it  ez  usual. 

"  Zebulon  hed  never  gone  beyant  the  Third 
Reader  in  school  or  th'oo  fractions,  an'  yit  'hen 
he  become  a  school-director,  he  seen  the  hand  o' 
a  higher  power  instead  o'  the  wotes  o'  citizens 
who  wasn't  agin  improvin'  the  roads,  but  was 


Ambition— An  Argument.  89 

agin  hevin'  it  done  'hen  they  was  workin'  out 
their  road  tax.  He  was  called  to  the  service  o' 
his  felly-man.  He  was  sacrificin'  his  own  happi- 
ness, givin'  up  his  fishin'  an'  huntin'  that  he  might 
dewote  his  life  to  helpin'  others.  He  hedn't  ben 
school-director  a  month  tell  he  concided  it  was  an 
honor,  a  great  honor,  yit  the  sphwere  was  too 
narrer  fer  a  man  o'  his  talents.  Zebulon  Pole 
was  learnin'.  He'd  found  out  they  was  better  an' 
higher  things  in  this  worl'  then  a  mountain  stream 
full  o'  trout,  a  soft  bed  o'  moss  on  the  bank,  a 
half  cloudy  day,  a  pipe  an'  a  hook  an'  line.  He'd 
found  out  they  was  nobler  things,  so  he  come  out 
ez  candidate  fer  county  commissioner,  'lowin' 
that  after  that  he'd  be  Gov'nor,  an'  then  Presydent 
But  the  woters  remembered  how  they'd  over- 
exerted  themselves  in  his  days  ez  superwisor; 
they  minded  how  in  his  first  week  ez  school-direct- 
or, he'd  changed  the  spellin'  book  an'  cost  'em 
twenty-five  cents  a  head  fer  every  blessed  child  in 
the  district.  They  jest  snowed  him  under.  He 
was  plain  Zeb  Pole  agin.  He'd  tasted  the  sweets 
o'  power  an'  lost  his  appytite  fer  fishin'.  His 
hopes  o'  bein'  Presydent  was  gone.  They  was 
nawthin'  left  fer  him  to  look  for'a'd  to  but  dyin'." 

The  student  shook  his  head  gravely. 

"  There  is  some  argument  in  what  you  have 
been  saying,"  he  said  slowly.  "  I  admit  that. 
But  you  know  your  ideas  are  not  new.  You 
simply  carry  one  back  to  the  Stoics  of  Greece." 


QO  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

The  Loafer  was  puzzled.  "  What  did  you  say 
they  was?"  he  asked. 

"  The  Stoics  of  Greece.  You  remind  me  of  the 
Stoics  of  Greece." 

"  Is  that  a  complyment  or  a  name  ? "  The 
Loafer  leaned  sharply  forward  and  thrust  his  long 
chin  toward  the  speaker  ominously. 

"  Why,  a  compliment,"  was  the  reply.  "  The 
Stoics  were  a  great  school  of  philosophers.  They 
taught  simplicity  in  life.  Diogenes  was  a  Stoic." 

"  Who  ?  "  asked  the  Patriarch,  bending  over  and 
fixing  his  hand  to  his  ear. 

"  Diogenes." 

"  D'ogenes — D'ogenes,"  said  the  old  man.  He 
paused  ;  then  added,  "  D'ogenes — yes,  I've  heard 
the  name  but  I  can't  exactly  place  him." 

"  Well,  you  certainly  never  met  him,"  said  the 
collegian.  "  He  lived  a  couple  of  thousand  years 
ago  in  Athens.  His  idea  was  to  get  as  close  as 
possible  to  nature,  so  he  lived  in  a  tub." 

"  Didn't  they  hev  no  suylums  in  them  days?  " 
asked  the  Loafer. 

"  Diogenes  wasn't  crazy,"  cried  the  student. 
"  He  was  a  great  philosopher.  They  tell  one 
story  of  how  he  went  walking  around  Athens  car- 
rying a  lantern  in  broad  daylight.  When  asked 
what  he  was  doing,  he  said  he  was  looking  for  an 
honest  man." 

"  What  was  the  lantern  fer  ? "  the  Miller  in- 
quired. 


Ambition — An  Argument.  91 

"  Why,  he  was  looking  for  an  honest  man," 
shouted  the  collegian. 

"  I  s'pose  it  never  struck  him  to  go  to  the  store 
fer  one,"  drawled  the  Loafer. 

"  You  miss  the  point — the  whole  of  you.  Di- 
ogenes was  a  man  who  spurned  the  material  things 
of  this  world.  He  tried  to  forget  the  body  in  the 
development  of  the  mind  and  soul,  so  he  lived  in 
a  tub,  and " 

"  See  here,  young  felly,"  interrupted  the  Loafer, 
"  fer  an  argyer  you  beat  the  band.  First  off  ye 
conterdicted  me  fer  sayin'  a  man  should  take  his 
time.  Now  ye  come  'round  my  way,  only  worse. 
I  never  sayd  a  man  should  keep  house  in  a  tub. 
Why,  his  missus  'ud  never  give  him  no  peace. 
No,  sir;  don't  ye  git  no  fool  idees  like  that  in 
your  head." 

"  But  that  is  the  truest  philosophy " 

"  I  know.  Zebulon  Pole  got  that  wery  idee 
after  he  was  defeated  fer  county  commissioner. 
He  moped  'round  the  walley  fer  a  year  an'  final 
one  day  come  to  me  an'  sayd  he  was  goin'  to 
dewote  the  rest  o'  his  life  to  religious  medyta- 
tion.  '  It's  less  trouble  to  git  to  heaven  then  the 
White  House,'  he  sayd,  '  fer  a  good  deed  is  easier 
to  do  then  an  opposin'  candidate.'  It  happened 
that  at  this  time  they  hed  ben  a  woman  preacher 
holdin'  bush-meetin's  in  our  walley  an'  he  was  a 
reg'lar  attendant.  She  pounded  away  at  wanity. 
All  was  wanity,  she  sayd.  They  wasn't  nawthin' 


92  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

in  this  world  wuth  livin'  fer.  Fine  houses,  fine 
clothes,  slick  buggies,  fast  horses,  low-cut  waist- 
coats— all  them  things  was  extrys  which  was  no 
more  needed  fer  man's  sperritual  comfort  then 
napkins  fer  his  bodily  nourishment.  It  didn't  take 
long  fer  them  idees  to  spread  in  our  walley,  an? 
Pole  was  one  o'  the  first  to  catch  'em.  I  mind 
comin'  home  from  fishin'  one  day,  I  seen  him  a- 
settin'  on  a  fence  chewin'  a  straw  an'  watchin'  the 
clouds  scootin'  'long  overhead. 

"  '  Ho,  Zeb  !  '  I  sais,  shakin'  a  nice  string  o' 
trout  under  his  nose.  '  Why  ain't  ye  out  ? 
They's  bitin'  good.' 

"  He  looks  at  me  outen  the  corner  o'  his  eye 
wery  solemn. 

"  '  Fishin'  ?  '  he  sais. 

" '  Yes,  fishin','  I  yells,  kind  o'  s'prised. 
'  They's  bitin'  good.' 

"  4  All  them  things  is  wanity,'  sais  he,  straight- 
enin'  up  an'  pintin'  a  finger  o'  scorn  at  me. 
'  Wanity  o'  wanities.  Let  me  warn  ye,  man. 
I've  give  up  all  them  worldly  pleasures.  I'm  set 
on  higher  things.' 

"'Six-rail  fences,'  I  answers,  'all  day  long — 
chewin'  a  straw — watchin'  clouds — wery  elewatin'.' 

"He  give  me  a  sad  look. 

"  '  What  are  ye  doin'  now?'  sais  I,  not  intend- 
in'  to  be  put  down  even  ef  he  hed  ben  school 
director. 

" '  I'm  a  lily,'  he  sais.    '  I'm  followin'  the  words 


Ambition — An  Argument.  93 

o'  that  dear  sister  who  has  cast  her  lot  among  us. 
Henceforth  I  no  longer  considers  the  morrer.  I 
toil  not,  nuther  spin." 

"  '  See  here,  Zeb,'  sais  I.  '  You  ain't  a  bit  my 
idee  of  a  lily.' 

"  '  I  don't  ast  the  approval  o'  the  world,'  sais 
he. 

"  '  An'  ye  wouldn't  git  it  ef  ye  did/  sais  I. 
'  But  still  I  s'pose  ye  might  do  pretty  well  in 
this  new  ockypation  ef  it  wasn't  fer  one  thing.' 

"  What's  that  ? '  he  asts. 

" '  Lilies  don't  use  tobacker,'  I  answers. 

"  That  kind  o'  jolted  him.  His  eyes  opened 
wide,  an'  I  seen  a  few  tears. 

"  '  I  never  thot  o'  that,'  sais  he. 

"  '  Oh,  it's  unimportant,'  sais  I.  '  You'll  make 
a  fair  lily.  It'll  come  hard  fer  ye  first  off,  after 
your  last  suit  of  clothes  is  wore  out.  Let's  hope 
that  happens  in  summer  so  ye'll  break  in  fer 
winter  easier.  You'll  git  used  to  not  eatin','  I 
sais.  '  Eatin'  is  wanity.  An'  ez  fer  tobacker — I 
never  seen  a  lily  smokin'.  But  still,  Zeb,  'hen  ye 
runs  out  o*  cut  an'  dried,  they  is  allus  a  placet  ye 
can  git  a  leetle  'hen  ye  takes  a  rest  from  bloomin* 
in  the  fiels.' 

"  That  wery  night  Zebulon  'cepted  my  inwite 
an'  come  over  to  our  placet  an'  got  a  hanful  o' 
cut  an'  dried.  He  borryed  a  loaf  o'  bread  an'  a 
can'le  beside.  I  didn't  begrudge  it  a  bit.  Nuther 
did  Pap.  But  this  lily  business  begin  spreading 


94  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

an'  all  o'  Hen  Jossel's  folks  tuk  to  toilin'  not 
nuther  spinnin',  'long  o'  Herman  Brewbocker's 
family  an'  Widdy  Spade  an'  half  a  dozen  others. 
They  was  dependin'  on  us  fer  flour,  matches,  to- 
backer  an'  sech  wanities,  an'  it  come  a  leetle  hard. 
We  stood  it  a  month  but  things  got  goin'  from 
bad  to  worse.  They  wasn't  a  day  passed  'thout 
a  lily  or  two  droppin'  in  at  our  placet  an'  'lowin' 
mebbe  we  mightn't  like  to  loan  a  piece  o'  ham,  a 
tin  o'  zulicks  or  a  bit  o'  oil.  It  worrit  Pap  terrible. 

"  One  night  I  come  home  from  store  an'  found 
all  the  doors  locked.  The  shutters  was  tight 
closed  an'  they  was  no  sign  o'  life  'cept  a  leetle 
bit  o'  smoke  dancin'  up  an'  down  on  the  chimbley 
top.  I  give  a  loud  knock.  They  was  no  answer. 
I  knocked  agin  an'  yelled.  The  garret  winder 
slid  up  an*  out  come  the  bawrel  o'  a  gun,  then 
Pap's  head. 

" '  Hello  ! '  sais  he.  '  Is  you  a  friend  or  a  lily 
o'  the  walley  ? ' 

"  '  Pap,'  I  sais,  '  it's  your  own  lovin'  son,'  sais  I. 
'  Don't  leave  me  out  here  unprotected,  the  prey 
to  the  next  lily  that  comes  along  lookin'  where- 
withal he  shall  borrer.' 

"  The  ole  man  opened  the  door  an*  let  me  in. 
Then  he  locked  it  agin  an'  barred  it.  He  picked 
up  his  musket  wery  solemn  like  an'  run  the  rammer 
down  the  bawrel  to  show  it  was  loaded  half  way 
to  the  muzzle. 

"  '  They  was  ten  lilies  here,  one  after  the  other, 


Ambition — An  Argument.  95 

to-day/  he  sais.  '  They've  left  us  the  bed,  the 
dough-tray,  three  chairs,  a  table,  an'  a  few  odds 
an'  ends.  'Hen  I  seen  the  last  foot  o'  our  sausage 
disappearin'  down  the  road  under  Widdy  Spade's 
arm  I  made  a  wow.  The  next  lily  that  blooms 
about  this  clearin'  gits  its  blossoms  blowed  off.' 

"  It  didn't  take  long  fer  the  news  o'  Pap's  wow 
to  fly  from  one  eend  of  Buzzard  Walley  to  the 
other.  Zeb  Pole  got  a  job  in  the  saw-mill.  Hen 
Jossel  went  back  to  bark-peelin'  an'  cuttin'  ties. 
Widdy  Spade  planted  her  garden." 

"  Well,"  exclaimed  the  Miller,  as  the  Loafer 
closed  his  account  of  the  idiosyncracies  of  Zebulon 
Pole,  "  I  can't  see  any  way  why  your  pap  was 
raisin'  sech  fool  things  ez  lilies.  They's  only 
good  to  look  at." 

"  I  understand  that  all  right,"  said  the  student. 
"  What  I  want  to  know  is,  what  have  you  demon- 
strated by  all  this  talk  ?  " 

"  I  ain't  demonstratened  nawthin',"  replied  the 
Loafer.  "You  conterdicted  me  because  I  sayd 
a  man  should  travel  slow  an'  take  things  easy  in 
this  world,  an'  I  proved  that  thenvez  travels  fast 
is  fools,  gamin'  nawthin'  in  the  eend  fer  them- 
selves or  other  folks.  Then  ye  switches  right 
'round  an'  adwises  livin'  in  a  tub.  I  showed  ye 
what  that  led  to." 

"  Then  are  we  all  to  commit  suicide  ?  " 

"  No.  Travel  comf  'table  th'oo  this  world. 
Travel  slow  but  allus  keep  movin'.  Ye  can  see 


96  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

the  country  ez  ye  go,  stoppin'  now  an'  then  to 
fish  trout,  or  take  a  bang  at  a  coon,  or  at  the  store 
to  discuss  a  leetle.  Don't  live  too  fast — don't  live 
too  slow — live  mejum." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Bumbletree  s  Bass-Horn. 

FROM  the  thick  limbs  of  the  maples  came  the 
discordant  chatter  of  the  cricket,  the  katydid  and 
the  tree-frog ;  from  the  creek  beyond  the  mill  the 
hoarse  bellow  of  the  bull-frog  ;  from  the  darkening 
sky  the  shrill  call  of  the  night-hawk  ;  and  out  of 
the  woods  across  the  flats  the  plaintive  cry  of  the 
whippoorwill  and  the  hoot  of  the  owl.  It  was  the 
evening  chorus,  but  the  loungers  on  the  store 
porch  did  not  hear  it,  for  to  them  it  was  a  part  of 
the  night's  stillness.  But  when,  wafted  across  the 
meadows  from  the  hills  beyond,  the  notes  of  a 
horn  sounded  faint  and  clear,  the  Chronic  Loafer, 
who  for  a  long  time  had  been  smoking  his  pipe  in 
silence,  cried,  "  What's  that  ?  " 

"  Slatter  up  the  Dingdang,"  said  the  Store- 
keeper. He  was  sitting  on  the  steps. 

"  No,  it  ain't ;  it's  Nellie  Grey,"  said  the  School 
Teacher  in  a  voice  that  brooked  no  contradiction. 
Then  in  a  deep  bass  he  began  singing, 

7  97 


98  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

"  Oh,  me  little  Nellie  Grey,  they  have  taken  her  away, 
An'  I'll  never  see  me  darlin'  any  more, 
I'm  a-settin'  be  the  river  with " 

"  You're  a-settin'  on  my  porch,"  cried  the  Store- 
keeper, for  he  was  nettled  at  having  had  his 
knowledge  of  music  questioned.  "  Sam  Butter 
can't  blow  that  tune,  an'  he  has  ben  out  every  night 
a-practisin'  '  Slatter  up  the  Dingdang!  ' 

The  music  on  the  hill  ceased,  leaving  no  tangi- 
ble ground  on  which  the  debate  could  be  con- 
tinued. The  Chronic  Loafer  had  too  long  been 
the  butt  of  the  pedagogue's  cutting  sarcasm  to 
miss  this  opportunity  of  scoring  him. 

"  Ef  that  ain't  a  good  un,"  he  roared.  "  Why, 
you  uns  doesn't  know  nawthin'  'bout  tunes, 
Teacher.  Jim  Clock  he  was  een  last  night  an' 
hear  Sam  a-blowin'  that  wery  piece.  He  sayd  it 
was  '  Slatter  up  the  Dingdang,'  an'  I  conjure  that 
Jim  knows,  fer  he  is  'bout  the  best  bass-horn 
player  they  is." 

The  Storekeeper  feared  that  this  support  from 
the  Loafer  might  somewhat  prejudice  his  own 
case  in  the  minds  of  the  others,  so  he  ventured, 
"  Not  the  best  they  is." 

"  Well,  the  best  they  is  in  Pennsylwany,"  said 
the  Loafer. 

"  There  are  some  ignoramuses  don't  know 
nothin',"  exclaimed  the  Teacher.  It  was  dark, 
but  by  the  light  of  the  lantern  that  hung  in  the 
window  the  men  could  see  that  he  was  gazing 


Bumbletree's  Bass-Horn.  99 

meaningly  at  his  adversary.  "  But  I  know  some 
that  knows  less  than  nothin'.  The  best  horn- 
blower  they  is  !  Why,  where's  your  Rubensteins, 
your  Paddyrewskies,  your  Pattis  ?  " 

He  stopped,  for  he  saw  that  the  mention  of 
these  names  had  had  the  desired  effect  on  his 
audience,  as  there  was  a  wise  wagging  of 
heads. 

But  the  Loafer  was  irrepressible.  "  Why,"  he 
retorted,  "  Patti  ain't  a  horn-player.  He's  a 
singer.  I  was  readin'  a  piece  in  the  paper  'bout 
him  jest  last  week.  An'  ez  fer  ole  Rube  Stein,  he 
never  played  nawthin'  but  checkers." 

"  Well,  can't  a  man  both  sing  an'  play  the 
horn  ?  "  the  Teacher  snapped. 

"  Perfessor,  I  agree  with  ye,  I  agree  with  ye  en- 
tirely." The  Tinsmith  had  been  silent  hitherto, 
on  the  end  of  the  bench.  Now  he  leaned  into 
view,  resting  an  elbow  on  his  knee  and  support- 
ing his  head  with  his  hand.  "  Jim  Clock  don't 
know  no  more  'bout  blowin'  a  bass-horn  then  my 
ole  friend,  Borax  Bumbletree.  Borax  he  knowd 
jest  that  leetle  he  was  fired  outen  the  Kishiko- 
quillas  In'epen'en'  Ban'.  He  come  of  a  musical 
fam'ly,  too.  His  mother  an'  pap  use  to  play  the 
prettiest  kind  o*  duets  on  the  melodium  an'  'cor- 
dine.  His  sister  Amandy  Lucy  an'  his  brother 
Hiram  could  sing  like  nightingales  an'  b'longed 
to  the  choir  at  Happy  Grove  Church.  It  seems 
like  Borax  was  left  out  in  the  distributin'  o'  music 


ioo  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

in  that  fam'ly,  an'  consequent  it  went  hard  with 
him.  'Henever  strangers  was  at  the  house  it  was 
allus,  '  Mr.  Bumbletree,  do  play  the  melodium,'  or, 
'  Now,  Amanda  Lucy,  sing  one  o'  your  beautiful 
pieces,'  an'  all  that.  Poor  Borax,  he  jest  set  an' 
moped. 

"  Final  he  'lowed  he'd  give  the  fam'ly  a  s'prise 
an'  learn  the  bass-horn,  cal'latin'  to  make  up  be 
hard  hustlin'  what  he'd  missed  be  natur' — the 
knowledge  of  the  dif  'rence  'tween  a  sharp  an'  a 
flat,  a  note  an'  a  bar,  a  treble  an'  a  soprany,  an' 
all  them  things.  He  begin  be  j'inin'  the  In'pen'- 
en'  Ban'.  Fer  six  weeks  he  practised  hard,  an'  at 
last  he  did  git  to  playin'  a  couple  o'  pieces.  But 
the  other  fellys  in  the  ban'  was  continual'  com- 
plainin'  that  Borax  didn't  keep  no  kind  o'  time ; 
an*  not  only  that,  but  he  drownded  'em  all  out, 
fer  he  could  make  a  heap  o'  noise.  They  sayd 
they  wouldn't  play  with  him  no  more  tell  he 
learned  to  blow  time.  Borax  was  clean  discour- 
aged, but  he  didn't  give  up.  He  practised  six 
weeks  more  an'  tried  it  with  the  ban'  boys  agin. 
They  sayd  now  that  he  didn't  know  pitch  an'  ruined 
their  pieces  a-bellerin'  way  down  in  A  'hen  they 
was  blowin'  up  in  high  C.  He  was  pretty  well  cut 
up,  but  'lowed  he'd  quit. 

"  I  think  he  meant  what  he  sayd  an'  'ud  'a'  kep' 
his  promise  ef  it  hedn't  'a*  ben  that  a  woman  inter- 
fered with  his  good  intentions.  She  was  Pet 
Parsley — Widdy  Parsley,  who  lived  with  her 


Bumbletree's  Bass-Horn.  101 

mother  back  in  Buzzard  Walley.  Borax  bed  a 
shine  fer  her  afore  she  merried,  an*  after  she  be- 
come a  widdy  he  was  wus  'an  ever.  One  night 
at  a  ban'  festival,  'hen  she  was  standin'  sellin'  at 
the  ice-crim  counter,  he  was  a-jollyin'  her.  Now 
he  noticed  that  young  Bill  Hooker,  who'd  tuk  his 
place  in  the  ban',  was  makin'  eyes  at  her  over  the 
top  o'  his  bass-horn  while  he  was  playin'.  That 
near  drove  Bumbletree  mad,  fer  him  an'  Bill  hed 
ben  runnin'  neck  an'  neck,  an'  he  knowd  they  was 
approachin'  the  string. 

"  '  Don't  Mr.  Hooker  play  gran'  ? '  sais  Pet  kind 
o'  timid  like. 

"  '  Well,  I  don't  know,'  answers  Borax,  '  I've 
heerd  better.' 

"  '  Oh,  hev  ye,'  sais  she,  kind  o'  perkin'  up  her 
nose.  '  I  'low  you're  jealous.  Can  you  play  at 
all?' 

"  '  Well,  can  I  ?  '  sais  Borax.  '  Why,  I  can 
blow  all  'round  him.' 

"  '  I'd  like  to  hear  you,'  sais  Pet.  '  Won't  you 
come  an'  blow  fer  me  sometim'  ? ' 

"  '  I  will,'  he  answers,  wery  determined. 

"  He  went  home  that  night  bound  to  git  time 
an'  pitch  together.  He  started  to  practise  'round 
the  house  but  his  fam'ly  objected.  The  missus 
'lowed  she  could  never  play  the  'cordine  with  sech 
a  bellerin'  goin'  on.  Amandy  Lucy  went  so  fur 
ez  to  say  it  'ud  ruin  her  voice.  But  that  didn't 
stop  Borax.  He  sayd  he'd  practise  'way  from 


IO2  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

the  house.  Every  night  after  the  feedin1  was 
done  he  use  to  take  his  horn,  his  music  marks  an' 
a  lantern,  an'  go  out  on  the  hill  ahint  the  barn. 
There,  settin'  on  a  lawg,  with  the  lantern  hangin' 
on  a  saplin',  he'd  blow  away.  Many  a  night  that 
summer  ez  I  set  over  at  our  placet  on  the  next 
ridge,  I'd  hear  Borax  a  boom-boom-boomin'  to 
git  the  time.  The  big  tones  'ud  go  echoin'  way 
over  in  the  mo'ntain.  Oncet  in  a  while  he'd  hit 
it  good,  an'  I  tell  you  uns  it  sounded  pretty  to 
hear  them  notes  a-rollin'  deep  acrosst  the  gut, 
a-sighin'  th'oo  the  trees  an'  a-dyin'  way  off  in  the 
woods. 

"  Then  he  tuk  up  pitch.  He  blowed  pitch  fer 
a  week  an'  then  tried  pitch  an'  time  together.  I 
thot  he  was  doin'  pretty  well.  Still  them  ban' 
boys  wasn't  satisfied.  They  sayd  he  didn't  go  up 
an'  down  right,  an'  that  they  couldn't  hev  him 
a-blowin'  'way  at  pitch  an'  time  an'  never  makin' 
no  new  notes.  He  'lowed  to  me  that  they  was  a 
heap  to  learn  'bout  blowin'  a  bass-horn,  but  he 
was  goin'  to  git  it  ef  it  'ud  only  be  of  uset  in  the 
next  worl'. 

"  At  nights  I  could  see  his  light  a-twinklin'  in 
the  woods  acrosst  the  gut  an'  hear  him  tryin'  to 
blow  time  an'  pitch  an'  ups  an'  downs  all  at 
oncet.  He'd  git  his  wind  fixed  to  blow  A,  an' 
out  'ud  come  a  C\  or  he'd  try  fer  a  D  an*  land  an 
E.  He  'lowed  to  me  oncet  that  sometim'  he  thot 


Bumbletree's  Bass-Horn.  103 

mebbe   it  was  willed  that  he  was  never  to  git  a 
tune.     But  he  kep'  at  it. 

"  Now  Bill  Hooker  hed  ben  to  Horrisburg 
that  summer  an'  got  him  a  brown  cady  hat.  That 
was  a  new  kind  o'  headgear  'round  Kishikoquillas 
an'  it  cot  on  wonderful  well.  All  the  boys 
'lowed  they'd  git  'em,  but  tell  they  had  a  chancet 
o'  buyin'  one  they  got  to  depend  on  Bill  fer  the 
loan  o'  hisn  'hen  they  was  goin'  out  shinin'.  So 
Hooker  wasn't  s'prised  one  night  'hen  Borax 
Bumbletree  drove  up  to  his  placet  an'  'lowed 
mebbe  Hooker  mightn't  like  to  loan  him  his  cady, 
ez  he  was  goin'  callin'.  Bill  allus  was  obligin'  an' 
thot  no  harm  'hen  he  watched  Borax  a-drivin' 
away  with  his  cady  settin'  way  up  on  top  o'  his 
head.  Bumbletree  hitched  his  buckboard  to 
a  saplin'  on  the  edge  o'  Pet  Parsley's  clearin'. 
Then  he  got  his  horn  out  from  in  under  the  seat, 
fixed  himself  on  a  stump  'bout  fifty  feet  from  the 
house,  put  up  his  music  marks  so  the  moonlight 
shone  on  'em,  an'  begin  to  play.  He  started  the 
serynade  with  '  Soft  th'oo  the  Eventide,'  that 
bein'  sentymental  an'  his  most  famil'ar  piece. 
He  put  his  whole  heart  into  the  work  an'  was 
soon  blowin'  time  an'  pitch  an'  ups  an'  downs  all 
at  oncet.  The  lamp  that  hed  ben  settin'  in  the 
windy  went  out — that  was  all  to  show  he'd  ben 
heard.  He  blowed  '  Pull  fer  the  Shore,  Sailor.' 
No  sign  o'  life  in  the  house.  He  blowed  '  The 
Star  Spangled  Banner.'  Still  no  sign.  He  then 


IO4  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

begin  all  over  agin  with  '  Soft  th'oo  the  Even- 
tide.' Be  this  time  the  whole  chicken-house  hed 
j'ined  in,  an'  the  cows  was  takin'  a  hand  too.  He 
was  desp'rit,  dissypinted  fearful  an'  all  used  up. 
So  he  went  home. 

"  You  take  a  reg'lar  thief.  He  knows  they's 
only  one  eend  to  thievin' — jail.  An'  he'll  keep  on 
stealin*  tell  he  gits  there.  Take  a  reg'lar  mur- 
derer. He  knows  they's  only  one  eend  to  murder 
— the  galluses  ;  yit  he'll  continyer  murderin'  tell 
he  gits  there.  So  it  is  with  a  reg'lar  man.  He 
knows  they's  only  one  result  o'  bein'  in  lawv — to 
be  merried  or  git  the  mitten.  An'  yit  he'll  keep 
right  on  tell  he  gits  one  or  the  other.  So  it  was 
with  Borax  Bumbletree.  He  hed  no  reason  to 
think  he'd  git  anything  but  the  mitten,  yit  he 
went  right  up  to  Pet  Parsley's  next  night  to  take 
his  punishment.  He  tol*  me  that  day  that  he 
guesst  his  serynade  hed  spoiled  all  the  chancet  he 
ever  had,  but  he  wanted  it  over. 

"  So  he  was  kind  o'  sheepish  an'  hang-dog  'hen 
he'd  sayd  good  evenin'  to  the  widdy  an'  set  down 
melancholy  like,  on  the  wood-box.  They  was 
quiet  a  piecet. 

"  Then  he  sayd,  '  I  hear  ye  hed  some  music  up 
here  last  night.' 

"  He  was  jest  fishin'. 

"  '  Did  I ! '  sais  she,  flarin'  up.  '  Well,  I  guesst 
I  did.  An'  the  chickens  was  so  stirred  up  they 
kep'  on  all  night  an'  not  a  wink  o*  sleep  did  we 


Bumbletree's  Bass-Horn.  105 

git  in  this  house.  I  never  heerd  sech  bass-horn 
blowinV 

"  Borax  jest  hung  his  head  an'  shuffled  his 
feet. 

"  The  widdy  spoke  up  agin.  '  Does  you  ever 
see  Bill  Hooker  ?  ' 

"  '  Oncet  in  a  long  while,'  Borax  answers. 

"  '  Well,  you  tell  him,'  she  sais,  '  that  next  time 
he  comes  up  here  to  serynade  me  to  send  notice 
so  I  can  git  over  the  other  side  the  mo'ntain.' 

"  Borax  Bumbletree  gasped  an'  almost  fell  offen 
the  woodbox. 

"  '  How'd  you  know  it  was  Bill  Hooker  ?  '  he 
asts  quick. 

"  '  Well,  didn't  I  see  that  new  fandangled  hat  o' 
hisn — that  cady  I've  heerd  so  much  about.  Why, 
I'd  'a'  knowd  him  a  mile.' 

"  Now  Borax  wasn't  ez  slow  on  everything  ez 
he  was  on  music.  He  was  right  smart,  he  was. 
He  seen  the  way  the  wind  blowed. 

"  Gittin'  offen  the  wood-box  he  went  over  to 
the  settee  alongside  o'  her. 

"  '  Pet,'  he  sais,  '  I  allus  told  you  Bill  Hooker 
couldn't  blow  the  bass-horn.' 

"  '  I  otter  'a'  knowd  you  could  blow  a  heap 
sight  better,'  she  sais  quiet  like,  but  meanin'  busi- 
ness. 

"  '  That  I  can,'  sais  he.  '  An'  after  we're  mer- 
ried — not  tell  after,  mind  ye — I'll  blow  sech  music 
fer  ye  ez  ye  never  dreamed  of.' ' 


io6  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

"  My  sights,  but  he  was  innercent ! "  the  Loafer 
cried. 

"  What  do  you  know  'bout  it  ?  "  snapped  the 
Tinsmith. 

"  Why,  him  thinkin'  she'd  give  him  a  chancet 
to  blow." 


CHAPTER  X. 

Little  Si  Berrybusb. 

THE  Chronic  Loafer  held  in  his  hand  a  single 
sheet  of  a  Philadelphia  paper  nine  days  old.  The 
other  pages  had  long  since  left  the  store  in 
service  as  wrappings.  This  treasure  he  had  res- 
cued from  such  ignominious  use  and  now  was 
poring  over  it  letter  by  letter.  The  center  of 
the  page  was  within  three  inches  of  the  end  of 
his  nose.  His  brow  was  furrowed  and  his  lips 
moved.  At  intervals  he  lifted  his  right  hand 
and  with  the  forefinger  beat  time  to  his  reading. 
He  was  comfortably  fixed  on  an  egg-crate  close 
by  the  stove.  The  paper  hid  him  from  the  view 
of  his  companions.  They  could  not  see  the  ear- 
nest workings  of  his  features  but  they  could  hear  a 
steady,  sonorous  mumble  and  were  curious.  They 
knew  better  than  to  interrupt  him  in  his  arduous 
task,  however,  and  awaited  with  commendable 
patience  the  time  when  he  should  choose  to  come 
forth  from  his  seclusion  and  tell  them  all  about  it. 

They  had  not   long   to   wait.      Suddenly   he 

107 


io8  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

jerked  his  head  forward  three  times,  viciously 
butting  the  paper,  simultaneously  emitting  a 
burring  sound  not  unlike  that  of  an  angry  bull 
when  he  tears  up  the  sod  with  his  horns.  The 
curtain  fell  to  show  him  calm  again  but  with  a 
puzzled  expression  on  his  countenance. 

"  Teacher,"  he  said,  "  what  does  h-a-b-e-a-s 
spell?" 

"  Hab-by-ace,"  replied  the  pedagogue  promptly. 
He  threw  out  his  chest  and  fixed  his  thumbs  in 
their  favorite  resting-place,  the  arm-holes  of  his 
waistcoat.  His  attitude  was  that  of  a  man  who 
was  full  to  the  neck  with  general  information 
and  only  needed  uncorking. 

"  Habbyace,"  said  the  Loafer.  "  Habbyace — 
habbyace — that's  a  new  un  on  me." 

"  Doubtless  it  is,"  the  other  retorted,  "  if  you 
have  never  studied  Latin.  It  means  have." 

"  Have — have,"  muttered  the  Loafer,  more 
puzzled  than  ever.  "  Then  what's  c-o-r-p-u-s 
spell  ?  " 

"  Corpuse,"  replied  the  pedagogue,  "  being  the 
Latin  for  body." 

"  Then  I'm  stumped."  The  Loafer  crumpled 
up  his  paper  in  one  hand  and  shook  the  other  at 
the  assembled  company.  "  Them  ceety  lawyers 
certainly  beat  the  band." 

"  What's  all  the  trouble  now  ?  "  inquired  the 
Tinsmith. 

The   Loafer    unfolded    the    sheet   again    and 


Little  Si  Berrybush.  109 

smoothed  it  out  on  his  knees.  Then  he  leaned 
over  it  and  eyed  it  intently. 

"  I  was  jest  readin'  a  piece  about  a  man  called 
Javvhn  O'Brien,"  he  said  slowly.  "  He  was  'rested 
fer  killin'  his  wife  an'  two  young  uns.  It  sais  the 
evydence  is  dead  agin  him  an'  he  is  sure  to  hang. 
He  has  hired  J.  Montgomery  Cole  to  defend  him. 
The  first  thing  the  lawyer  does  is  to  go  inter  court 
an'  ast  fer  a  habbyace  corpuse.  Mighty  souls ! 
The  idee  !  How's  that  to  defend  a  man — jest  to 
ast  fer  his  dead  body." 

The  Patriarch  shook  his  head  solemnly.  "  Ter- 
rible— terrible,"  he  said.  "  Sech  men  ought 
never  git  diplomys." 

"  Yit,  Gran'pap,"  suggested  the  Tinsmith, 
"  don't  ye  think  after  all  it's  best  they  is  some  sech 
lawyers  ?  Why,  ef  it  wasn't  fer  the  dumb  lawyers 
they'd  never  be  no  murderers  brought  to  jestice." 

"  True — true,"  said  the  old  man.  "  Now  it 
used  to  be  that  'hen  a  man  committed  murder 
he  was  tried,  an'  ef  the  evydence  was  agin  him, 
he  was  hung.  Nowadays  a  felly  commits  murder 
an'  a  year  is  spent  hevin'  him  indickted.  After 
he's  indickted  a  year  is  ockypied  with  these 
habbyace  corpuse  proceedin's.  They  settles  who 
gits  the  body  in  caset  he's  hung  an'  then  they  finds 
what  they  calls  a  '  flaw  in  the  indicktment.'  They 
indickts  him  agin.  Next  comes  the  question  of  a 
'  change  in  vendue.'  It  takes  a  year  to  argy  that 
pint  an'  after  it  the  trial  begins.  Ef  he's  found 


no  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

innercent  it  means  he's  ben  livin'  th'ee  years  doin' 
nawthin'  at  the  county's  expense.  Ef  he's  found 
guilty  his  lawyer  takes  what  they  calls  an  'excep- 
tion,' meanin'  he  objects  to  him  bein'  hung. 
It  takes  a  year  to — 

"  But,  Gran'pap,"  interrupted  the  Loafer, 
"ye  must  remember  that  the  principle  o'  the 
law  is  that  because  a  man  commits  murder  is  no 
sign  he's  guilty." 

"  I  know — I  know,"  the  Patriarch  said.  "  Ye 
can't  catch  me  on  law.  I  thot  o'  stedyin'  it 
oncet.  But  ez  I  was  sayin' — where  was  it  I  left 
off?" 

"  What's  a  '  change  o'  vendue,'  Gran'pap  ? " 
inquired  the  Miller. 

The  old  man  glared  at  the  speaker. 

"  That  wasn't  the  pint  where  I  left  off,"  he 
snapped. 

"  Yes,  but  what  is  it,  Gran'pap  ?  "  the  Tinsmith 
asked. 

But  the  Patriarch  had  forgotten  all  about  the 
defects  of  the  law.  He  had  leaned  forward,  rest- 
ing his  hands  on  his  cane  and  his  head  on  his 
hands,  and  was  studying  the  floor  intently. 

"  Buttonporgie  stood  six  feet  two  in  his  stock- 
in's,"  he  said  half  aloud,  after  a  long  silence. 
"  That  there  was  the  way  to  do  'em.  Now  ef 
Si  Berrybush  hed  ben  livin'  to-day,  he'd  be  fussin' 
with  indicktments  an'  changes  of  vendues  an' 
all  them  things  an' " 


Little  Si  Berrybush.  in 

"  Who  air  you  talkin'  to  now  ?  "  exclaimed  the 
Loafer. 

The  old  man  looked  up.  "  Oh  !  "  he  said.  "  I 
forgot.  Sure,  I  forgot.  Ye  never  heard  o' 
Tom  Buttonporgie  did  ye,  or  Si  Berrybush  ?  " 

None  of  the  company  had  heard  of  the  pair, 
so  the  Patriarch  consented  to  enlighten  them. 

"  I  got  the  main  pints  o'  the  story  from  Tom 
himself,"  he  began.  "  He  used  to  tell  it  'hen  he 
stayed  at  my  pap's  place  'hen  I  was  a  bit  of  a 
boy.  He  allus  told  it  the  same  way,  too,  which 
was  evydence  of  it  bein'true.  I  wish  all  you  uns 
could  'a'  heard  him.  Mighty,  but  it  was  a  treat ! 
Why,  he  was  never  in  our  house  two  minutes  till 
us  children  was  runnin'  'round  him  callin'  to  him 
to  tell  us  how  he  done  Si  Berrybush.  But  he'd 
never  give  us  a  word  till  he'd  opened  his  pedler's 
pack  an'  sold  somethin'  to  Ma  an'  the  girls. 
Next  it  was  his  supper  an'  a  pipe.  Then  I'd 
climb  on  his  one  knee  an'  my  sister  Solly  on  the 
other.  Ed  an'  May  'ud  git  on  the  wood-box  an' 
Pap  an'  Ma  on  the  settee.  It  tookth'ee  pipes  to 
wind  Tom  up.  Then  he'd  go  beautiful.  The 
words  'ud  role  out  like  music  an'  you'd  fergit  the 
kitchen  an'  the  folks  around.  You'd  be  out  in 
the  woods  with  him,  steppin'  along  with  him 
hour  after  hour  ez  he  was  carryin'  Si  Berrybush 
to  freedom.  You'd  see  the  things  ez  he  saw,  an' 
you'd  feel  the  things  ez  he  felt.  Now  ye  was 
low  down  an'  discouraged.  Everything  was 


ii2  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

dark  ez  ye  stumbled  on  an'  on,  achin'  in  every 
limb,  expectin'  each  minute  'ud  be  your  last. 
Now  ye  was  hopin'.  They  was  a  chance  fer  ye 
yit.  The  light  broke.  The  load  was  gone.  Si 
Berrybush  was  gone,  an'  ye  was  back  in  the  ole 
kitchen  agia,  with  Pap  an  'Ma  sound  asleep  on 
the  settee. 

"  Ez  I  was  sayin',  Tom  Buttonporgie  stood  six 
feet  two  in  his  stockin's  an'  was  a  most  powerful 
man,  fer  walkin"  day  after  day,  luggin'  a  great  pack 
on  his  back,  hed  give  him  the  muscles  of  an  ox.  He 
used  to  come  to  this  walley  oncet  every  summer 
so  he  knowd  well  o'  Si  Berrybush,  who  was  the 
desperatest  man  ever  seen  in  these  parts.  Si's  oc- 
kypation  was  robbin'.  He  made  his  headquarters 
in  the  mo'ntain  acrosst  the  river.  His  hand  was 
agin  everybody  an'  everybody  knowd  it,  yit  he 
never  was  catched.  Oncet  a  pedler  was  found 
dead  in  the  bushes  with  a  bullet  hole  in  his  head 
an'  his  pack  turned  inside  out.  They  sayd  Berry- 
bush  did  it,  so  he  went  down  to  the  Sheriff's  an* 
give  himself  up.  They  was  no  evydence  an'  he 
walked  home  agin.  A  couple  o*  times  things  like 
that  happened  an'  yit  they  was  never  an  ioty  o' 
proof.  He'd  'a'  died  a  nat'ral  death,  I  guess,  ef 
he  hedn't  forgot  himself  one  night  in  the  willage 
an'  shot  Joe  Hyde.  They  was  too  many  fellys 
handy  who  hed  grudges  agin  him  to  let  him  git 
away,  an'  they  clapped  him  in  jail,  tried  him  an' 
sentenced  him  to  be  hung. 


Little  Si  Berrybush.  113 

"  Now,  about  this  time,  Tom  Buttonporgie  come 
over  the  mo'ntain  inter  the  walley.  Late  in  the 
afternoon  he  reached  Ben  Clock's  place  near  Eden, 
an'  ez  they  knowd  him  well  tlrey  ast  him  to  spend 
the  night.  After  supper  the  family  hed  a  game 
o'  cards  an'  about  nine  o'clock  Tom  tuk  up  his 
pack  an*  started  fer  the  barn  where  he  was  to 
sleep,  fer  the  house  was  full.  Clock  lighted  the 
way  with  a  lantern  an'  saw  him  comfortable  fixed. 
The  pack  was  stowed  away  in  a  corner  o'  the 
barn-floor,  while  the  pedler  was  settled  nice  ez  ye 
please  on  a  horse-blanket  in  the  hay-mow. 

"Tom  Buttonporgie  slept  sound  an'  hard. 
Everything  in  this  world  was  pleasant  fer  him. 
Things  was  goin'  his  way.  It's  strange  that  it 
should  be  so,  boys,  but  yit  it  is  true  that  sleep 
comes  easiest  an'  quickest  to  them  ez  hes  nawthin' 
but  good  things  to  forget  in  it.  So  from  the  time 
he  laid  his  head  down  on  the  hay  till  a  kick  awoke 
him,  Tom  knowd  nawthin'.  He  opened  his  eyes 
with  a  jerk  an'  set  up  an'  rubbed  'em.  The  airly 
mornin'  light  was  jest  creepin'  inter  the  barn,  but 
he  could  make  out  only  a  small,  dark  figure  a  few 
feet  away. 

" '  Good  morning,  Mr.  Clock/  sais  he  wery  pleas- 
ant, tho'  he  was  a  leetle  put  out  at  the  rough  way 
he'd  ben  woke. 

" '  Good  mornin',  Tom,'  sais  the  figure  wery 
cheerful.  '  You've  mistook  me,  fer  my  name  is 

Berrybush.' 
8 


H4  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

"  'Hen  the  pedler  hear  that  he  made  a  grab  !ef 
his  pistol.  He'd  laid  it  in  the  hay  close  to  hisn, 
but  now  it  was  gone.  He  started  to  rise  but  he 
felt  a  steel  bawrel  pressed  agin  his  head.  Button- 
porgie  was  big  an*  full  o'  grit,  but  he  knowd  that 
ye  can't  argy  with  lead.  So  he  set  down. 

"  '  Well,'  sais  he,  '  I  guess  you  ve  got  me,  Mr. 
Berrybush.' 

"  '  I  think  I  hev,'  the  murderer  answers,  '  an'  I've 
got  ye  good,'  he  sais.  '  I  intend  to  keep  ye,  too, 
fer  I'm  right  fresh  out  o'  jail  an'  soon  the  whole 
country'll  be  lookin'  fer  me.  Excuse  the  familiar- 
ity,' he  goes  on  polite  likt,  '  but  we'll  be  Tom 
an'  Si  fer  some  hours  to  come,  fer  you're  to  carry 
me  outen  these  parts  in  your  pack.' 

"  That  idee  made  Buttonporgie  gasp.  He  tried 
to  git  up  but  bumped  agin  the  pistol. 

"  Si  Berrybush  laughed  an'  went  on  in  that 
pleasant  way  o'  his :  'I  notice  the  plan  ain't 
takin'  well  with  ye,  Tom,  but  you'll  see  how  nice 
it  works.  While  you  slept,'  he  sais,  '  I  fixed  the 
pack.  The  goods  is  all  stowed  away  here  in  the 
hay  an'  I  find  I  fit  the  leather  box  to  a  T.  I  git 
in  it ;  you  put  it  on  your  back  an'  go  th'ee  mile 
an  hour.  Nawthin's  easier.' 

"  Then  he  laughed  like  he'd  die.' 

"  Be  this  time  they  was  quite  some  light  in  the 
barn  an'  the  pedler  was  able  to  see  who  he  hed 
to  deal  with.  The  first  sight  was  encouragin', 
fer  he  was  but  a  bit  of  a  man,  not  more  than  five 


Little  Si  Berrybush.  115 

feet  th'ee.  He'd  a  wery  small  body  set  on  crooked 
spindle  legs.  His  face  was  pleasant  enough,  fer 
they  was  nawthin'  in  his  leetle,  black  eyes  an' 
heavy,  red  beard  to  mark  him  ez  a  desperaydo. 
The  only  real  onlikely  thing  about  him  was  the 
pedler's  pistol. 

"  Tom  kind  o'  cheers  up  now  an'  sais,  sais  he, 
'  Si,  you've  mistook  the  whole  thing.  Don't  ye  see 
I'll  turn  ye  over  to  the  first  men  we  meet?' 

"  At  that  Si  th'owed  back  his  head  an'  laughed. 

"  '  Will  ye  ?  '  he  sais.  '  Well  I  guess  ye  would, 
only  this  pistol'll  be  stickin'  th'oo  a  hole  in  the 
back  o'  the  pack.  Ef  you  go  to  carry  out  sech  an 
idee  two  bullets'll  end  the  both  of  us,  an'  that's 
a  sight  better  than  hangin'.  So  come  on,'  he  sais. 
'  We  must  be  movin'.' 

"  Tom  wasn't  in  fer  undertakin'  sech  a  job 
without  objectin'. 

"  '  See  here,  Si ! '  he  sais.  '  I  appeals  to  you  ez 
a  gentleman,'  he  sais.  '  I've  allus  heard  you  was 
a  gentleman  in  spite  o'  your  faults — I  appeal  to 
you  to  tell  me  what  good  it  would  do  you  to  kill 
yourself  an'  me  too.  You  hain't  no  particular 
spite  agin  me,'  Tom  goes  on,  'an'  I  hain't  no 
particular  spite  agin  you.  I'm  willin'  fer  you  to 
stay  in  this  barn  an'  me  git  out,  or  fer  you  to  git 
out  an*  me  stay,  both  of  us  keepin'  quiet.' 

"  Si's  eyes  kind  o'  twinkled  an'  he  pulled  his 
beard  like  he  was  thinkin'  wery  hard. 

"  '  Shake  me,  Tom  ! '  he  sais  at  last,  '  ef  I  don't 


n6  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

like  a  man  o'  your  sperrit.  Ef  I  wasn't  in  sech  a 
bad  hole  I'd  be  tempted  to  accept  your  offer. 
But  onfortunate  fer  both  of  us,'  he  sais,  'this 
whole  walley  will  be  overrun  with  searchin  'parties 
in  a  few  hours.  They've  got  a  chancet  to  hang 
Si  Berrybush  an'  they  ain't  goin'  to  lose  it  ef  they 
can  help  it.' 

"  Buttonporgie  was  a  nice  man  an'  a  smart  man 
at  his  business,  but  they  was  some  things  that  it 
was  a  leetle  hard  to  git  into  his  head. 

"  '  See  here  ! '  he  sais,  not  satisfied.  '  I  can't 
see  what  good  it  'ud  do  you  to  shoot  me  ef  I  was 
to  call  one  o'  them  searchin'  parties  to  take  a 
look  in  my  pack.  You'd  hev  to  hang  anyway. 
Why  couldn't  ye  jest  shoot  yourself  ?  ' 

" '  You're  wastin'  walable  time/  Si  answers. 
*  I'll  kill  myself  sooner  than  be  catched.  Ez  long 
ez  you  know  that  you'll  be  killed  ef  I  am  catched, 
you  won't  bother  callin'  folks  to  see  what  you  are 
carryin'.  An',  Tom,'  he  went  on,  '  I  might  jest  ez 
well  tell  you  now  that  'hen  we  git  well  out  o' 
harm's  way,  I'm  goin'  to  shoot  ye  anyhow.  I 
don't  want  to  leave  no  one  'round  to  blab.' 

"  Si  Berrybush  smiled  the  innercentest  smile 
you  uns  ever  see,  an'  the  pedler  chewed  a  straw 
a  spell. 

"  Then  he  looks  up  an'  sais,  '  You  must  take 
me  for  a  dummy  ? ' 

"  '  Why  ? '  Si  asts. 

"  '  Do  you  think  I'll  lug  you   thirty  or   forty 


Little  Si  Berrybush.  117 

mile  jest  so  you  can  shoot  me  ?  '  answers  Button- 
porgie.  '  I  might  ez  well  call  it  up  now  !  '  he  sais. 

"  Si  cocked  his  pistol  careless-like  an'  pinted 
it  at  the  other  man's  head  ez  tho'  it  was  his 
finger  an'  he  was  jest  makin'  a  good  argyment 
on  religion. 

"  '  You  are  a  dummy,'  he  sais,  laughin'.  '  Now 
don't  you  s'pose  that  ez  long  ez  you  think  there's 
hope,  a  chancet  o'  your  comin'  out  alive,  you'll 
carry  me.  Of  course  ye  will,'  he  sais.  '  Not 
till  there's  not  an  ioty  of  a  possibility  o'  your 
doin'  me,  will  you  let  me  finish  you.'  " 

"  Mighty  souls,  but  that  Si  was  an  argyer,  now 
wasn't  he  !  "  the  Miller  interrupted. 

"  He'd  'a'  looked  like  small  potatys  'long  side 
o'  my  Missus.  I  mind  the  'time  'hen  jest  fer  fun 


The  Patriarch  tapped  the  Loafer  gently  on  the 
knee  with  his  cane. 

"  My  dear  man,"  he  said  gently,  "  never  inter- 
rupt a  good  story.  It  ain't  polite.  There  is 
some  peculiarly  minded  folks  ez  is  never  happy 
'less  they  is  doin'  all  the  talkin'.  Now  where  did 
I  leave  off?" 

"  Where  there  was  hope  —  some  hope,"  the 
Miller  answered. 

"  Hope  —  oh,  yes  —  hope,"  the  old  man  continued. 
"  Mighty  !  Why  I've  knowd  a  sensible  hen  to 
set  four  weeks  on  a  chiny  egg,  jest  in  hope  that  she 
might  be  mistaken.  Si  Berrybush  knowd  human 


n8  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

natur'  well,  fer  it  didn't  need  but  a  wiggle  or  two 
o'  the  pistol  to  bring  Buttonporgie  to  takin'  his 
view  o'  the  sensibleness  o'  hopin'.  The  pedler 
looked  kind  o'  sheepish  an'  'lowed  he  guesst  Si 
was  right.  Si  sayd  he  guesst  he  was,  an'  climbed 
into  the  pack,  an'  most  mighty  snug  he  fit  it. 
Then  Buttonporgie  knelt  down,  put  his  arms 
th'oo  the  straps  an'  lifted  the  load  high  on  his 
back.  Si  closed  down  the  flap.  A  second  later 
Tom  felt  the  muzzle  o'  the  pistol  pressin'  him 
gentle  like  atween  the  shoulders. 

"  '  Now  we're  off,'  sais  Si,  '  over  the  mo'ntains 
th'oo  Windy  Gap.  Step  light,  ole  hoss,'  he 
sais,  '  fer  the  gun's  cocked  an'  too  much  joltin'll 
send  it  off.'  " 

"  Mighty  souls ! "  interrupted  the  Loafer. 
"  An'  how  fur  did  he  hev  to  carry  him,  Gran'- 
pap  ?  A  mile  ?  " 

"  A  mile  ! "  exclaimed  the  Patriarch.  "  Pshaw ! 
Does  you  uns  think  a  mile  'ud  'a'  put  Si  Berrybush 
outen  the  way  o'  the  sheriff's  posse.  Why,  the 
whole  county  was  alive  that  mornin'.  It  was 
hardly  sun-up  'hen  Tom  Buttonporgie  stepped 
outen  Clock's  barn  an'  went  ploddin'  up  the  big 
road  with  his  pack,  yit  at  the  eend  o'  the  first 
mile  he  met  th'ee  men  on  horseback,  an'  they 
pulled  up  an'  told  Jiim  all  about  Berrybush  an' 
warned  him  to  keep  out  a  sharp  eye.  Tom  felt 
the  pistol  bawrel  kind  o'  nosin'  'round  his 
shoulders,  so  he  laughed  wery  pleasant  an'  'lowed 


Little  Si  Berrybush.  119 

it  was  all  right;  he  was  obliged  fer  the  warnin' 
but  there  was  no  help  fer  Si  Berrybush  ef  he  ever 
come  within  the  length  o'  his  arm.  On  he  went 
agin.  Ez  the  last  o'  the  horses'  hoofs  died  away 
down  the  road  he  hear  a  gentle  chucklin'  com- 
ing from  his  pack. 

"'  Wery  good,'  sais  Si,  '  most  a  mighty  good.' 

"  The  pedler  was  a  religious  man  yit  he  swore. 
At  that  he  could  feel  his  pack  palpitatin',  fer  his 
load  was  laughin'  an'  laughin'  to  beat  all.  Tom 
swore  some  more,  but  he  kept  up  his  walkin'. 

"  Si  'lowed  it  wasn't  nice  fer  Tom  to  carry  on  so. 

"  '  It  makes  me  feel  bad,'  hesayd,  talkin'  th'oo 
a  slit  in  the  top  o'  the  pack.  '  It  makes  me  feel 
bad,  Tom,  to  hear  you  behavin'  like  that.  I 
don't  mind  killin'  a  good  man,  fer  I  knows  he'll 
git  his  reward  in  the  next  world.  But  shootin'  a 
felly  after  he's  used  sech  language  hurts  me,'  he 
sayd. 

"  With  that  he  rubbed  the  nose  o'  the  pistol 
between  Tom's  shoulder-blades.  The  pedler  jest 
bubbled. 

"  '  Keep  on  hopin',  Tom,'  he  heard  the  woice  at 
his  back.  '  Mebbe  somethin'll  happen  'twixt  now 
an'  to-morrow  mornin'  that'll  let  you  free  o'  your 
pack ! ' 

"  The  sun  come  out  hot,  an'  the  road  was 
dusty.  The  load  was  heavy  an'  they  was  a  good 
many  long  hills.  Time  an'  agin  Tom  'ud  slow 
down.  '  Git  up,  ole  hoss,'  he'd  hear  come  from 


I2O  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

behind  him.  Then  they'd  be  that  pistol  jabbin' 
him.  He'd  make  a  face  an'  pick  up  his  gait. 
Time  an'  agin  he  met  parties  ez  was  out  huntin' 
the  murderer.  Sometim's  he'd  hurry  by  them  ; 
others  he  stopped  an'  talked  to,  askin'  all  about 
Si  Berrybush  an'  his  escape,  thankin'  'em  fer 
their  adwice  an'  'lowin'  over  an'  over  agin  he'd 
give  his  last  cent  jest  to  have  the  leetle  man  in 
his  grasp. 

"  Be  noon  he'd  covered  nine  mile  an'  reached 
the  foot  o'  the  mo'ntain. 

"'  Now  see  here,  Si,'  he  sais,  sais  he,  'you  ain't 
goin'  to  kill  your  horse  be  overwork,  are  ye  ? 
S'posn  I  drop  down  in  the  road  ! ' 

"  '  Nobody's  sorrier  than  I  am  fer  your  trouble, 
Tom,'  come  the  answer.  '  It's  really  pitiful.  But 
I'll  risk  your  givin'  out — I'll  risk  it.' 

"  Then  there  was  the  pistol  agin. 

"  At  the  last  house  in  the  walley  Tom  stopped 
an'  got  a  loaf  o'  bread  be  special  permission.  The 
woman  wanted  to  hev  a  look  at  his  pack,  but  he 
sayd  no  ;  what  he  had  in  it  wasn't  worth  lookin'  at. 
He  was  carryin'  low-down,  mean,  mis'able  stock 
that  wasn't  fit  to  show  to  no  lady.  Besides — the 
pistol  was  jabbin'  him — he  hed  to  hurry  on  to  git 
over  the  mo'ntain  be  sunset.  An'  on  he  went. 

"  Si  begin  laughin'  so  hard  it  set  the  pack 
joltin'  up  an'  down  on  Tom's  back  an'  almost  up- 
set him. 

"  '  That   was  a  mean  undercut  you  give  me, 


Little  Si  Berrybush.  121 

Thomas,'  sais  the  murderer.  '  A  gentleman  should 
never  abuse  a  gentleman  behind  his  back  ! '  he 
sais.  '  Now  s'posn  you  pass  that  bread  in  here.' 

"  '  But  I  got  it  fer  meself,'  Tom  wentures. 

"  '  Did  ye  ?  '  answers  Berrybush,  pressin'  on  the 
butt  of  the  gun  jest  a  leetle.  '  Well,  s'posn  ye  pass 
it  in  anyway  an'  dewote  the  rest  o'  the  afternoon 
to  hopin'.  Mebbe  you'll  git  it  after  all.' 

"  Tom  passed  it. 

"  The  road  was  steep  an'  the  way  was  rough  in 
the  mo'ntain.  Strong  ez  he  was  an'  light  ez  was 
the  murderer,  the  work  begin  to  go  heavy  with 
him.  But  the  pistol  was  allus  at  his  back  proddin' 
him  on.  Oncet  he  stepped  inter  a  chuckhole  an' 
pitched  for'a'd,  his  hands  jest  savin'  him  from 
strikin'  his  face  to  the  ground.  He  thot  that  all 
was  up  with  him,  fer  the  pack  was  jerked  up  on 
his  head,  wrenchin'  his  shoulders  most  dreadful. 
He  closed  his  eyes,expectin'  to  hear  the  crack  o' 
the  gun  an'  then  go  plungin'  on  agin  fer  ever  an' 
ever. 

"  Nawthin'  happened.  He  climbed  to  his  feet 
kind  o'  dissypinted,  fer  instead  o'  his  journey 
bein'  ended  he  hed  to  go  limpin'  ahead.  Si  was 
a-cursin'  him  dreadful.  Tom  walked  like  an 
ellyphant,  he  sayd,  an'  was  joltin'  his  bones  all 
out  o'  j'int.  Next  time  he  stumbled  the  gun  'ud 
be  cocked  dead  sure. 

"  The  sun  was  settin'  'hen  they  reached  the 
edge  o'  the  woods  on  yon  side  the  mo'ntain.  The 


122  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

murderer  pushed  up  the  lid  o'  the  pack  an'  looked 
out  over  Tom's  shoulder.  He  pinted  acrosst  the 
walley  twenty  mile  to  where  they  could  see  the 
hills  agin.  There,  he  sayd,  he'd  be  th'oo  with 
his  mule. 

"  Th'oo  with  him !  Tom  knowd  what  that 
meant.  He  knowd  now  Si  Berrybush  'ud  keep 
his  word  ;  that  he'd  never  git  out  o'  that  pack 
an'  leave  a  man  alive  an'  runnin'  round  to  tell 
where  he  could  be  found.  He  was  almost  willin' 
to  call  the  game  up  right  there  an'  lay  down  his 
load  an'  his  life  together,  but  still  there  was  hope. 
It  was  precious  leetle,  to  be  sure,  but  still  some. 
Ez  Si  sayd,  they  was  no  tellin'  what  might  happen 
agin  they  got  to  the  end  o'  that  twenty  mile. 

"  Berrybush  pulled  in  his  head  an'  let  the  flap 
down  over  it.  '  Git  up',  he  sais, '  git  up,  ole  Tom.' 
An'  with  that  he  give  him  a  prod. 

"  On  Buttonporgie  went,  down  the  slope  inter 
the  walley,  each  step  takin'  him  nearer  an'  nearer 
the  hills.  The  sun  set  an'  the  darkness  come  to 
add  to  his  troubles.  The  lights  went  out  in  the 
houses  'long  the  way  an'  they  wasn't  no  sound 
to  cheer  him  up,  not  a  sound  but  the  steady 
breathin'  in  his  pack  an'  the  rattle  o'  the 
gravel  under  his  own  shufflin*  feet.  It  was 
awful  travellin'  that  way,  straight  on  an'  on 
to  the  hills  where  he  was  to  die,  feelin*  allus 
on  his  back  the  weight  o'  the  man  who  was  to 
kill  him. 


Little  Si  Berrybush.  123 

"  Final  he  couldn't  stand  the  silence  no  more. 
'  Si,'  he  cried,  '  Si,  won't  ye  talk  to  me ! ' 

"  They  wasn't  no  answer.  He  only  heard  a 
heavy  breathin'  in  the  pack. 

"  The  moon  come  up  an'  lighted  the  road  an' 
the  dogs  begin  to  bay  at  it.  That  might  'a' 
cheered  him  up  some  had  he  'a'  heard  'em,  but  he 
didn't  hear  nawthin'  now.  Tom  Buttonporgie 
was  dazed  like.  He  kept  on  a-walkin'  an'  a- 
walkin',  but  the  straps  no  longer  cut  his  shoulders 
an'  he  forgot  the  load  on  his  back.  The  road 
with  the  moonlight  pourin'  over  it  seemed  like  a 
broad  white  pavement  crosst  the  walley,  smooz 
ez  marble.  They  was  no  chuckholes  now  to 
stumble  in,  no  thank-ye-ma'ams  to  jump  over,  no 
ruts  to  twist  his  ankles.  It  was  all  smooz — smooz 
ez  marble  it  was.  On  he  went,  faster  an'  faster. 
He  wanted  to  git  to  the  eend  o'  the  white  road 
now  an'  lay  down  his  pack  an'  sleep.  He  was 
walkin'  mechanical. 

"  All  o'  a  sudden  a  queer  sound  woke  him  from 
his  doze  an'  he  stopped  short.  It  all  come  back 
agin.  He  was  in  the  road  an*  the  road  was 
rough,  an'  the  straps  was  cuttin'  dreadful,  an'  his 
legs  felt  like  they  was  givin'  way  under  him. 
The  pack  was  on  his  back  an'  awful  heavy  too. 
He  reached  up  his  hand  an'  felt  it.  But  a  queer 
sound  was  comin'  from  it — most  a  mighty  queer. 
Tom  didn't  dast  breathe.  He  stood  still  listenin'. 
Then  it  come  louder — a  soft  purrin',  gentle  ez  a 


124  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

cat's.  An'  the  peddler  laughed.  Natur'  had 
tackled  Si  Berrybush  an'  walloped  him.  He  saw 
snorin'. 

"  There  was  an  oneasy  movement  in  the  pack. 
Tom's  heart  fell.  He  stepped  on  wery  cautious. 
Now  agin  come  the  sound,  louder  an'  louder. 

"The  road  took  a  sudden  turn  'round  a  thick 
clump  o'  woods  an'  crossed  a  stream  on  a  rickety 
timber  bridge.  There  Buttonporgie  stopped. 
An'  ez  he  leaned  agin  the  rail  an'  looked  down 
into  the  water  there  below  him,  gleamin'  along 
in  the  moonlight,  everything  kind  o'  passed  away 
from  his  mind.  He  only  knowd  that  he  was 
wery  hot,  an'  the  pool  looked  so  cool  an'  in- 
witin'.  He  only  knowd  that  he  was  wery  tired, 
an'  the  pool  looked  so  soft  an'  nice,  ez  ef  it 
was  jest  intended  for  limbs  achin'  like  ez  his. 
He'd  miles  yit  to  go  afore  he  reached  the 
hills.  Si  was  sleepin'.  Si  wouldn't  mind.  Si 
wouldn't  know.  They'd  be  movin'  agin  afore  Si 
woke  up.  So  he  climbed  over  the  rail  an'  stepped 
off.  The  wotter  closed  over  his  head  an'  he  went 
down  an'  down,  the  great  weight  on  his  back 
draggin'  him.  But  that  wasn't  what  he  wanted. 
He  was  jest  goin'  to  lay  there  in  the  cool  stream 
an'  look  up  at  the  stars  an'  rest.  His  feet  struck 
the  bottom  an'  he  tore  his  arms  free  o'  the  straps 
that  held  the  awful  weight  to  him.  In  a  second 
he  was  on  the  surface  an'  swimmin',  fer  he  was 
wide  awake. 


Little  Si  Berrybush.  125 

"He  used  to  say  that  ez  he  stood  there  on  the 
bank  lookin'  at  that  quiet  pool  it  seemed  ez  tho' 
it  was  all  a  dream  ;  that  he'd  never  met  the  mur- 
derer an'  carried  him  thirty  mile  on  his  back,  or 
felt  the  prod  of  his  pistol  every  time  his  steps 
lagged.  But  ef  it  was  a  dream,  he  thot,  then 
what  was  that  he  seen  that  rose  to  the  surface 
an'  went  bobbin'  away  on  the  current?  It  was 
Si  Berrybush's  ole  cloth  cap." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Cupid  ana  a  Mule. 

THE  wind  went  shrieking  through  the  bare  at- 
tic above  and  singing  among  the  boxes  and  bar- 
rels in  the  cellar  below.  The  big  show  window 
in  front  groaned  in  a  deep  bass  ;  the  little  window 
in  the  rear  accompanied  it  in  a  high  treble.  The 
lamp,  with  its  vague,  flickering  flame,  cast  a  gloomy 
glare  over  the  store,  and  lighted  up  the  faces  of 
the  little  group  of  men,  seated  on  box,  counter, 
keg  and  chair,  huddled  about  the  great  center  of 
heat. 

The  Chronic  Loafer  raised  himself  from  his 
favorite  pile  of  calicoes  and  turned  up  his  coat 
collar. 

"  Shet  that  stove  door  an'  put  on  the  draught," 
he  cried.  "  What's  the  uset  o'  freezin'  ! " 

"  Cold  Chrisermas  to-morrer,"  said  the  Store- 
keeper, as  he  banged  the  door  shut  and  turned  on 
the  draught  in  obedience  to  the  demand. 

"  Turn  up  the  lamp,"  growled  the  Miller.  "  It's 
ez  dark  an'  gloomy  ez  a  barn  here." 

"  They  ain't  no  uset  o'  wastin*   He,"  the  Store- 
126 


Cupid  and  a  Mule.  127 

keeper  muttered  as  he  complied  with  the  second 
request. 

The  great  egg  stove  roared  right  merrily  as  the 
flames  darted  up  out  of  its  heart,  until  its  large 
body  grew  red-hot  and  sent  forth  genial  rays  of 
heat  and  light — the  veritable  sun  of  the  narrow 
village  universe. 

"  Listen  to  the  wind  !  Ain't  it  howlin'  ?  "  said 
the  Loafer. 

"  Col'est  Chrisermas  Eve  in  years,"  the  Tin- 
smith responded. 

The  Loafer  pushed  himself  off  the  counter  onto 
an  empty  crate  that  stood  below  him.  He  leaned 
forward  and  almost  embraced  the  stove  in  his 
effort  to  toast  his  hands. 

"  This,  I've  heard  tell,"  he  said,  "  is  the  one  night 
in  all  the  year  'hen  the  cattle  talks  jest  like  men." 

"  Some  sais  it's  Holly  E'en,"  ventured  the 
Miller. 

"  No,  it  ain't.  It's  Chrisermas,"  the  Loafer  re- 
plied emphatically.  He  leaned  back,  placed  his 
thumbs  in  the  arm-holes  of  his  waistcoat  and  glared 
about  the  circle  in  defiance. 

The  brief  silence  that  followed  was  broken  by 
the  School  Teacher. 

"  Superstition  !     Mere  superstition  !  " 

"  That's  what  I  sais,"  cried  the  Storekeeper. 
He  was  leaning  over  the  counter  munching  a 
candy  lion.  "  What  'ud  a  mule  talk  about  'hen 
he  only  had  a  chancet  oncet  a  year?  " 


128  'file  Cftronic  Loafer. 

A  thin,  meaning  smile  crept  over  the  Loafer's 
face  and  he  bent  forward,  thrusting  his  long  chin 
in  the  direction  of  the  venturesome  merchant. 

"  In  my  time,"  he  drawled,  "  I've  met  some 
mules  pullin'  plows  that  hed  they  ben  able  to 
talk  'ud  'a'  sayd  sensibler  things  then  some  ez  is 
engaged  in  easier  an'  more  money-makin'  ockypa- 
tions." 

The  Store  was  usually  loath  to  accord  recogni- 
tion to  the  Loafer,  but  this  was  the  season  of 
good-will  to  all,  and  it  lifted  up  its  voice  in  one 
mighty  guffaw.  Even  the  Teacher  joined  in,  and 
the  G.  A.  R.  Man  slapped  his  knee  and  cried, 
"  Good  shot !  " 

The  victim  hid  his  burning  face  in  the  recesses 
of  the  sugar  barrel,  and  under  pretense  of  hunt- 
ing for  the  scoop  finished  the  candy  toy. 

"  My  father-in-law  was  a  superstitious  man  and 
always  believed  in  them  fool  things,"  said  the 
pedagogue.  "  I  never  give  them  any  credit  my- 
self, for  they  say  that  education  is  as  great  an 
enemy  to  superstition  as  light  is  to  darkness.  In 
other  words,  learnin'  illumines  a  man's  mind  and 
drives  out  all  them  black,  unholy  beliefs  that  are 
bred  in  ignorance." 

He  paused  to  give  effect  to  his  words,  but  the 
Loafer  seized  the  opportunity,  thus  unintention- 
ally offered,  to  remark,  "  Then  it  'ud  seem  like  most 
men's  brains  is  like  cellars.  They  is  allus  some  hole 
or  corner  in  a  cellar  that  ye  can't  light  lest  ye  put 


Cupid  and  a  Mule.  129 

a  special  lantern  in  it,  an'  ye  hev  trouble  keepin' 
that  burnin'." 

"  But  the  brain's  perfectly  round,"  interposed 
the  Miller,  shaking  his  head  sagely. 

The  Teacher  sighed.  "  It's  no  use  talking  to 
you  men  in  figures " 

"  Go  on.  Let's  hev  figgers,"  cried  the  Store- 
keeper, eagerly. 

The  pedagogue  leaned  back  on  two  legs  of  his 
chair  and  pillowed  his  head  on  a  cheese  box  that 
stood  on  the  counter.  After  having  carefully  ex- 
tinguished the  flame  in  his  cigar,  blown  out  the 
smoke  and  placed  the  stump  in  his  pocket,  he 
began : 

"  While  I  give  no  credit  to  the  current  super- 
stitions, I  cherish  a  peculiar  affection  for  this  old 
belief  that  the  cattle  talk  on  Christmas  Eve.  I 
feel  that  to  it  I  owe  part  of  my  happiness  in  life, 
and  I've  had  a  good  deal  of  it,  too,  in  spite  of  the 
hardships  I  had  to  endure  as  a  boy.  You  know 
my  parents  died  when  I  was  but  seventeen  year 
old  and  left  me  practically  penniless  and  a  charge 
on  the  township.  So  I  was  bound  over  to  Abra- 
ham Buttenberger,  who  had  a  fine  farm  up  near 
West  Eden.  But  for  one  thing  life  with  him 
would  have  gone  hard  with  me,  for  he  was  a 
crotchety  old  fellow,  a  bit  stingy,  and  inclined  to 
get  the  greatest  possible  amount  of  work  out  of 
a  husky  lad  that  was  gettin'  no  pay  but  his  keep. 
The  one  thing  I  mentioned  was  Abraham's  dottef 
9 


130  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

Kate.  I  have  seen  many  weemen  in  my  day, 
and  I  can  honestly  say  that  I  have  looked  on  few 
such  pictures  as  she  was  when  I  first  knew  her. 
She  was  sixteen  then " 

"  I  don't  know  'bout  that,"  the  Loafer  inter- 
rupted. "  Did  you  uns  ever  see  my  Missus  'hen 
she  was  sixteen  an' " 

"  She  was  sixteen  then,"  repeated  the  Teacher, 
ignoring  the  remark ;  "  she  was  sixteen  and  ex- 
tremely good  lookin'.  But  most  of  you  have 
seen  her  since  and  it's  no  use  for  me  to  dwell  on 
that  point.  As  the  years  went  by  I  got  to  set  a 
heap  of  store  by  Kate  and  she  set  a  heap  of  store 
by  me.  But  we  kept  it  to  ourselves  till  we  was 
twenty.  Then  we  agreed  to  be  married.  Our 
agreement  didn't  do  any  good,  for  Abraham  set 
his  foot  down  on  the  scheme.  He  wasn't  goin' 
to  have  no  hirelin'  of  his  a-merryin'  his  dotter.  I 
explained  to  him  how  his  days  was  drawin'  to  an* 
end ;  how  a  time  was  a-comin'  when  the  place 
wouldn't  do  him  any  more  good  and  no  more 
harm  'ud  come  to  him  whether  his  farm-hand  was 
runnin'  it  or  not ;  how  his  dotter  would  need 
lookin'  after  and  all  that.  His  answer  was  to 
drive  me  away  with  a  horse-whip. 

"  That  was  in  November.  For  seven  weeks  I 
never  laid  eyes  on  the  girl,  for  the  old  man 
watched  her  like  a  hawk.  But  he  tired  of  that, 
and  one  night  let  her  go  to  literary  society  meetin' 
at  Kishikoquillas  school.  I  saw  her  there  and 


Cupid  and  a  Mule.  131 

wanted  her  to  elope  right  on  the  spot.  She  said 
no.  It  was  too  sudden.  Besides,  she  wanted  her 
things,  for  she  knew  her  father  would  keep  them 
just  for  spite  if  she  run  away  without  them.  So 
we  fixed  it  up  that  next  night — that  was  Christ- 
mas Eve — she  was  to  meet  me  at  their  barn,  and 
we  would  take  one  of  the  horses  and  a  sleigh  and 
skip. 

"  Now,  as  I  said,  Abraham  was  a  superstitious 
man  and  continual  readin'  the  almanac  and  perus- 
in'  charms.  He  believed  in  that  old  sayin'  about 
the  cattle  talkin'  on  Christmas  Eve.  Many  a  night 
he'd  argued  the  point  with  me.  I  always  said  if 
he  thot  it  was  true,  why  didn't  he  go  listen  to  it. 
He  declared  he  would,  but  he  never  did — least- 
ways he  put  it  off  to  a  most  onexpected  time.  If 
there  was  any  place  the  cattle  was  likely  to  talk, 
I  used  to  tell  him,  it  was  right  in  that  big,  spooky 
barn  of  his ;  and  if  there  was  any  place  where  one 
could  hear  them  perfect,  it  was  right  there.  The 
stables  was  in  the  basement  and  the  mows  was 
overhead.  The  hay  was  stored  above  the  horses 
and  mules.  A  hole  about  ten  feet  across  and 
twenty  feet  deep  run  from  the  top  of  the  mow 
into  that  particular  stable.  I  explained  to  him 
how  he  could  lay  at  the  top  of  the  hay,  put  his 
head  down  into  the  hole  and  hear  everything  that 
passed.  But  that  Christmas  Eve  I'd  forgot  all 
about  our  argument.  I'd  other  things  to  think 
of. 


132  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

"  I  reached  the  barn  at  midnight.  Kate  was 
there,  standin'  by  the  gate  waitin'.  Everything 
was  clear.  The  old  man,  she  said,  had  gone  to 
bed  and  didn't  have  any  suspicions.  So  we  got 
the  sleigh  ready  and  went  into  the  horse  stable 
to  harness  up.  It  was  clear  moonlight  outside 
but  inside  it  was  dark  as  pitch  and  fearful  ghostly. 
There  were  all  kinds  of  noises — hay  rattlin',  rats 
skippin'  around,  chains  clinkin';  and  every  now 
and  then  a  hen  roostin'  up  in  the  racks  would 
begin  to  cluck  and  scare  Kate  awful.  Grave- 
yards is  bad  at  night  but  they  ain't  a  circumstance 
to  a  big  barn. 

"  I  picked  out  the  white  John  mule,  for  I  knew 
he  was  a  good  traveler,  and  gettin'  the  harness, 
I  went  into  his  stall  and  began  to  fix  it  on  him. 
Then  I  couldn't  find  any  bridles.  I  whispered 
to  Kate.  She  said  they  was  over  in  the  cow 
stable,  and  went  to  get  one.  It  seemed  to  me 
she  was  gone  an  awful  long  time.  I  could  hear 
her  trampin'  around,  but  as  she  didn't  appear  to 
be  havin'  much  success  I  called,  not  very  loud, 
'  What's  wrong  ?  ' 

"  '  Nothin','  she  answered,  '  I'll  have  them  in  a 
minute.' 

"  It  seemed  like  I  heard  a  suspicious  noise 
come  down  the  hayhole  from  the  mow  above.  I 
listened,  but  I  didn't  hear  any  more  sounds,  so 
guessed  it  was  a  rat. 

"  Then  I  called  louder  to  Kate,  for  I  was  mad  at 


Cupid  and  a  Mule.  133 

Abraham  for  all  the  trouble  he'd  given  us,  '  The 
old  man  is  a  mean  customer  if  there  ever  was 
one ! ' 

"  She  tramped  around  in  the  straw  for  a  spell. 
Then  her  answer  came  from  the  cow  stable, '  That's 
what  I  say.' 

"  '  A  nice  way  he  treats  his  own  dotter,'  I  went 
on,  just  talkin'  for  company.  '  He  thinks  he'll  take 
his  farm  with  him  when  he  dies.  What  a  shame 
in  a  man  of  his  age  ! ' 

"  Again  I  heard  a  rattle  of  hay  up  above  and 
whispered, '  Ssh  ! '  But  the  girl  didn't  catch  it  and 
said  particularly  loud  and  spiteful, '  He  has  treated 
me  powerful  mean/ 

"  I  put  my  hand  to  my  ear  and  listened,  but  all 
was  quiet,  so  I  thinks  to  myself,  '  It's  a  chicken.' 
"  '  Don't  you  think  kickin'  is  too  good  for  a  man 
like  that,  John  ?'  Kate  asks. 

" '  Well,  I'd  like  to  have  it  to  do,'  I  answers. 
'  Oh !  just  you  wait  till  I  get  a  chance,  and  if 
I  don't- 

"  There  was  an  awful  scream  in  the  mow — an 
unearthly  scream.  A  great,  black  thing  came 
tumblin'  out  of  the  hay  hole  into  the  stable,  lettin' 
out  fearful  groans  all  the  time.  I  couldn't  see  it 
very  plain  and  didn't  stop  to  investigate.  I 
bumped  into  Kate  as  she  was  pilin'  into  the  kitch- 
en. We  set  down  a  minute  to  get  our  breath. 
Then  I  put  my  head  out  of  the  door.  For  a  piece 
all  was  quiet.  Then  a  faint  call  come  from  the 


134  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

barn.  She  thot  maybe  it  was  a  tramp  had  fallen 
down  the  hayhole.  I  wanted  to  go  alone  and  see, 
but  Kate  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  She  insisted  on 
goin'  with  me  and  takin'  a  gun  and  a  lantern. 

"  I  opened  the  stable  door,  peeped  in  and  said, 
'  Who's  there  ? ' 

"  The  answer  was  a  moan  and,  '  Is  that  you, 
John?  Help!' 

"  There  Abraham  Buttenberger  lay  on  a  little 
pile  of  hay  at  the  back  of  the  stable,  writhin'  and 
moanin'. 

"  '  I  always  knew  it,'  he  groaned.  '  I  always 
told  you  they  talked  on  Christmas  Eve.  But  why 
did  you  ever  get  me  to  try  and  hear  them  ?  See 
what  you've  led  me  to.  Look  at  me  layin'  here 
with  a  broken  leg  and  see  what  you've  done.  It 
was  the  white  John  mule — I  know  his  voice. 
T'other  was  the  brindle  cow.' 

"  '  Look  out  for  the  mule !  Look  out ! '  he 
cried,  as  we  carried  him  out  of  the  stable  and  put 
him  on  a  wheelbarrow. 

"  That's  the  way  he  took  on.  When  we'd 
got  him  into  the  house  I  went  up  to  town  for  a 
doctor.  I  attended  him  that  night.  The  next 
day  after  he'd  had  breakfast,  he  set  up  in  bed  and 
says  to  me  :  '  John,  I've  heard  people  laugh  about 
the  sayin'  that  the  cattle  talk  on  Christmas  Eve. 
I've  heard  you  make  fun  of  the  idee.  But  you'd 
never- laugh  at  it  again  if  you  heard  what  I  did 
last  night ;  if  you'd  had  a  mule  heapin'  coals  of 


Cupid  and  a  Mule.  135 

fire  on  your  head.  And  that  cow !  Oh,  it's  awful 
to  have  the  very  animals  on  the  farm  down  on 
you  like  that.' 

"  '  What  did  they  say  ?  '  says  I. 

"  '  Say ! '  he  answers.  '  What  didn't  they  say  ? 
I'll  never  have  no  peace  behind  that  John  mule 
again.' 

"  The  old  man  was  quiet  a  spell.  Then  he 
says,  '  John,  you  can  have  my  dotter,  my  only 
dotter.' 

"  And  he  begin  to  moan. 

"  Missus  and  I  were  married  at  home  that 
Christmas  just  fifteen  years  ago.  We  never  ex- 
plained it  to  Abraham.  There  was  no  particular 
use  in  it.  We  couldn't  'a'  convinced  him  any- 
way. Why,  do  you  know  he  was  so  set  on  makin' 
up  all  around  that  he  insisted  that  the  brindle 
cow  and  the  white  mule  know  all  about  it.  The 
ceremony  was  performed  in  the  kitchen  and  them 
two  knowin'  beasts  was  hitched  to  the  window  so 
they  could  look  in.  He  was  bound  to  appease 
'em." 

The  Teacher  chuckled  softly  as  he  finished  his 
narration. 

The  Storekeeper  bit  the  legs  off  a  candy  os- 
trich. "  It  do  beat  all !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  I  knowd  it,"  the  Loafer  cried  triumphantly. 
"  I  allus  knowd  it.  I  thank  you,  Teacher,  fer 
backin'  me  up  with  this  petickler  instance  of  it. 
The  cattle  do  talk  on  Chrisermas  Eve." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

The  Haunted  Store. 

THE  Chronic  Loafer  cautiously  opened  the 
door  and  peered  out  into  the  black  night.  A 
blinding  flash  of  lightning  zigzagged  across  the 
heavens  and  descended  to  earth  in  a  nearby  wheat 
field,  disclosing  to  his  view  the  clear  outlines  of  a 
great  oak  whose  limbs  were  thrashing  wildly  in 
the  wind.  There  was  a  sound  of  splintering 
wood,  a  crash  of  thunder  overhead,  then  darkness 
again.  The  door  swung  shut  with  a  startled 
bang.  The  rain  beat  violently  against  the  win- 
dows. 

"The  ole  tree's  hit  agin,"  the  Loafer  cried. 
"  Did  ye  see  that  flash  ?  Mighty  souls,  what  a 
night !  I  wisht  I'd  gone  home  'fore  it  begin  to 
come  down  so  heavy.  I  hevn't  no  umbrelly,  an' 
the  Missus'll  never  hear  me  callin'  in  seen  a 
storm." 

The  store  was  a  gloomy  place,  lighted  as  it  was 
by  a  solitary  oil  lamp  which  cast  weird  shadows 
in  the  recesses  of  the  dusty  ceiling  and  over  the 

shelves,   laden   with   their  motley   collection   of 
136 


The  Haunted  Store.  137 

crockery  and  glassware,  boxes  and  cans.  There 
was  no  fire  in  the  stove,  for  it  was  late  in  the 
spring,  so  the  atmosphere  was  damp  and  chilly. 

The  G.  A.  R.  Man  joined  the  Loafer  at  the 
door. 

"  Bad,  ain't  it  ?  "  he  said.  "  I  guesst  I  don't  go 
home  be  way  o'  the  Meth'dis'  buryin'-ground  to- 
night." 

The  other  laughed  and  cried,  "  My  sights ! 
'Fraid  o'  the  buryin'-ground  !  " 

The  pair  sauntered  back  to  their  places  about 
the  cheerless  stove.  The  Storekeeper  leaned  his 
chair  against  the  counter,  fixed  his  feet  firmly  on 
the  rungs  and  clasped  both  knees  tightly  with  his 
hands. 

"  You  can  laugh  an'  say  they  ain't  no  sech 
things  ez  spooks,"  he  said,  "but  I  notice  that 
you  uns  an'  most  other  folks  'hen  ye  walks  be 
the  buryin'-ground  at  night,  cuts  th'oo  the  fields 
ez  fur  'way  from  it  ez  ye  can  git." 

The  Loafer  reddened.  For  a  moment  he  beat 
his  feet  slowly  against  the  side  of  the  counter  on 
which  he  had  seated  himself  between  the  Miller 
and  the  Tinsmith.  Then  he  retorted  hotly,  "  I 
hain't  sayd  they  was  no  sech  things  ez  spooks." 

"  Mebbe  they  is  an'  mebbe  they  ain't,"  ventured 
the  Miller  in  a  low  tone.  "  But  ef  they  ain't, 
why  hesn't  Abe  Scissors  ben  able  to  git  a  tenant 
fer  that  leetle  place  o'  his  back  on  the  ridge  ? 
They  sais  it  hes  a  ha'nt,  an'  tho'  I've  never  seen 


138  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

it,  I  knows  folks  that  saisthey  hes,  an'  I've  no  rea- 
sons to  doubt  their  words." 

The  G.  A.  R.  Man  nodded  his  head  in  assent. 
"  I  don't  b'lieve  in  them  ghosts  meself,  but  'hen 
it  comes  to  goin'  home  be  way  o'  the  Meth'dis' 
buryin'-ground  at  night  I  allus  goes  the  back  road, 
even  ef  it  is  furder." 

There  was  silence.  Outside  the  rain  beat  furi- 
ously against  the  windows ;  in  the  garret  over, 
head  the  wind  whistled  mournfully ;  from  the 
cellar  below  came  the  faint  clatter  of  loose  boards 
as  the  rats  scampered  to  and  fro. 

The  Storekeeper  reached  behind  him  and  turned 
the  wick  of  the  lamp  up  a  little  higher. 

The  Miller  slipped  from  his  place  on  the  counted 
and  seated  himself  on  the  box  beside  the  veteran. 
He  filled  and  lighted  his  clay  pipe,  and  began  : 
"  My  gran'pap  used  to  tell  how  night  after  night 
he  heard  the  churn  splashin'  down  in  his  spring- 
house  ;  an'  how  he  stepped  out  once  to  find  out 
what  done  it.  He  seen  the  sperrit  of  his  first  wife 
churnin'  an'  churnin',  an'  she  told  him  how  lest 
some  un  'ud  break  the  spell  she'd  hev  to " 

The  Chronic  Loafer  had  glided  off  the  counter 
and  was  rolling  a  keg  close  to  the  speaker.  He 
fixed  himself  comfortably  on  it ;  then  cried, 
"  Turn  up  that  there  light.  This  dark  hurts  a 
felly's  eyes." 

The  Tinsmith  glanced  furtively  behind  him 
into  the  blackness  beneath  the  counter.  He  pushed 


The  Haunted  Store.  139 

himself  from  his  perch,  intending  to  join  the  little 
knot  about  the  stove.  Hardly  had  he  reached 
the  floor  and  taken  one  step  when  he  halted. 

"Ssh!     What's  that?" 

The  Miller  dropped  his  pipe.  The  Storekeeper 
paled  and  nervously  grasped  the  back  of  his  chair. 
The  Chronic  Loafer  arose  to  his  feet,  his  upraised 
arms  trembling  visibly.  The  G.  A.  R.  Man,  with 
eyes  and  mouth  wide  open,  sat  up  rigidly  upon 
his  keg. 

From  the  cellar  beneath,  low,  but  so  distinct  as 
to  be  heard  above  the  patter  of  the  rain  and  the 
rattle  of  the  windows,  came  the  sound  of  foot- 
steps. It  lasted  but  a  moment,  and  then  seemed 
to  die  away  in  the  distance. 

The  Chronic  Loafer  broke  the  silence.  "  Sights ! 
I'm  goin'.  The  Missus'll  be  gittin'  worrit." 

He  hurried  to  the  door,  but  as  he  opened  it 
there  was  a  blinding  flash  of  lightning,  a  crash  of 
thunder,  and  the  whole  building  trembled.  A 
gust  of  wind  drove  the  rain  against  the  windows 
with  redoubled  vigor.  He  slammed  the  door 
shut  and  returned  to  his  keg. 

"  Wha— what's  that  ?  "  exclaimed  the  G.  A.  R. 
Man. 

The  Storekeeper  shook  his  head  mournfully. 
"  It's  the  ha'nt  that  give  my  pap  so  much  trouble." 

"  A  ha'nt !  "  cried  the  Loafer  and  the  Miller, 
their  teeth  chattering. 

"Yes,"   replied   the   Storekeeper,   leaning    his 


140  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

chair  back  on  two  legs.  "  That's  what  Pap  use  to 
say  it  was.  He  seen  it.  I  never  did,  but  ef  you 
uns  draws  up  closer  I'll  tell  ye  what  he  sayd 
about  it." 

Nothing  loath  to  get  as  near  as  possible  to 
each  other  the  men,  seated  on  chairs,  kegs  and 
boxes,  formed  a  little  circle  about  the  Storekeeper, 
who  began  his  story  in  a  voice  hardly  above  a 
whisper. 

"  My  pap,  you  uns  knows,  run  this  here  store 
an'  done  a  pretty  lively  trade  tell  the  year  'fore 
he  died.  Hebo't  it  off  o'  ole  Ed  Harmon,  who'd 
kep'  it  a  long  while.  You  uns  may  remember 
Ed,  or  mebbe  ye  don't.  He  was  a  mean  man 
ef  they  ever  was  one;  never  hesytatin'  to  give 
short  measure  in  sellin'  butter  an'  takin'  long  in 
buyin' ;  allus  buyin'  eggs  be  the  baker's  dozen 
an'  sellin'  'em  the  reg'lar  way  ;  usin'  a  caliker 
stick  an  inch  short  of  the  yard.  It  don't  take 
many  years  o'  that  kind  o'  tradin'  to  hurt  a  man's 
repytation  in  these  parts,  an'  consequent  'hen  he 
died  he'd  the  name  o'  bein'  'bout  the  dishonestest 
felly  in  the  county,  ef  you  uns  reck'lect." 

"That  I  do,"  the  Miller  interposed.  "An' 
the  sugar  he  sold  was  that  wet  ye  could  'a' 
squeezed  a  tin  o'  wotter  outen  every  pound." 

"  My  sights!  "  cried  the  Loafer. 

"  Sure,"  continued  the  Storekeeper,  "  an'  'cor- 
din'  to  Pap,  who  hed  the  name  fer  tellin'  the 
truth,  them  was  his  footsteps  we  heard  jest  now." 


The  Haunted  Store.  141 

"  Sam  Hill ! "  muttered  the  G.  A.  R.  Man. 
"  His  body's  in  the  Meth'dis'  buryin'-ground." 

The  Chronic  Loafer  cast  an  anxious  glance  to- 
ward the  entrance  to  the  store-room,  from  which  a 
stairway  wound  down  into  the  cellar.  The  Tin- 
smith shifted  his  chair  closer  into  the  circle. 
There  was  a  roll  of  thunder  along  the  mountains, 
a  flash  of  lightning  that  seemed  to  find  the  earth 
somewhere  among  the  distant  ridges,  but  the 
rain  was  still  pouring  down  in  torrents. 

"True.  That's  what  Pap  sayd,"  the  Store- 
keeper continued  in  a  low,  awed  tone.  "  He  told 
me  all  about  it  afore  he  died,  an'  I  guesst  he  told 
me  right,  fer  we've  heard  his  footsteps  an'  my 
sugar  hes  ben  wet  lately." 

"  So  my  Missus  hes  ben  complainin' — still — 
but " 

The  Storekeeper  was  slightly  ruffled  by  this  in- 
terruption and  glared  for  a  moment  at  its  author, 
the  Loafer.  Then  he  resumed  his  narrative. 

"  It  tuk  Pap  considerable  time  to  build  up  his 
trade,  but  he  give  square  measure,  an'  by  an'  by  the 
folks  begin  comin'  here  'stead  o'  goin'  to  Kishko- 
quillas.  Then  the  trouble  started.  One  day  he 
found  a  chip  stuck  in  the  scales  he  used  fer  buyin' 
meat  on,  so  it  wouldn't  weigh  more'n  fifty  pounds. 
He  licked  me,  that  he  did,  tho'  I  never  done  it. 
Next  day  he  found  another  stick  there,  an'  he  was 
that  mad  he  licked  me  agin.  Then  I  went  away 
fer  a  week,  an'  every  mornin'  reg'lar  he  found 


142  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

that  chip.  He  begin  to  feel  queer  'bout  it  'hen 
he  seen  I  wasn't  responsible.  So  every  day  he 
pulled  the  chip  out,  tell  final  it  stopped.  He  thot 
it  was  rats. 

"  Things  run  'long  all  right  fer  a  year,  an'  then 
folks  begin  to  complain  that  the  sugar  was  damp, 
an'  blamed  Pap  fer  wettin'  it  to  make  it  weigh. 
He  sayd  he  didn't,  an'  he  didn't,  fer  he  wasn't  no 
man  to  tell  nawthin'  but  the  truth,  let  alone  to 
treat  his  sugar  dishonest.  But  the  customers  begin 
to  drop  off  buyin'  an'  he  to  be  afraid  o'  losin'  his 
trade.  What  was  more,  he  seen  that  sugar  he  got 
in  the  bawrel  ez  dry  ez  a  chip  one  night  was 
damp  next  mornin'.  'Hen  he  declared  it  wasn't 
his  fault,  folks  wouldn't  believe  him,  an'  they  was 
no  denyin'  it,  them  goods  was  soakin*.  So  he  con- 
cided  he'd  find  out  jest  what  was  wrong.  He 
found  out  an'  never  hed  no  more  peace.  What 
happened  I  tell  you  exactly  ez  he  told  me,  an'  I 
ain't  hed  no  cause  to  disbelieve  what  he  sayd,  fer 
he  wasn't  a  man  to  waste  words. 

"  One  night,  jest  after  he'd  got  in  a  bawrel  o' 
granilated,  he  went  to  the  cellar  an'  made  'range- 
ments  to  discover  the  trouble.  He  hed  his  ole 
shot-gun  along  an'  hung  an  ile  lantern  to  a  joist 
in  the  middle.  Then  he  set  down  on  a  pile  o'  sacks 
in  a  corner  to  watch.  He  wasn't  a  bit  skeered  at 
first,  fer  the  lantern  was  burnin'  cheery.  An  hour 
went  by,  an'  he  begin  to  git  weary  ;  they  was  no 
signs  of  anything  wrong.  Then  another,  an'  he 


The  Haunted  Store.  143 

begin  to  doze  off.  How  long  he  slep'  he  didn't 
know,  but  a  foot-fall  woke  him,  an'  he  set  up  on 
the  pile  o'  sacks  an'  looked.  The  lantern  was 
flickerin'  low,  fer  the  ile  hed  most  burned  out,  so 
they  was  only  a  dim  light  in  the  placet.  His 
heart  stopped  beatin',  an'  his  breath  wouldn't 
come.  Fer  a  moment  they  was  dead  silence. 
The  lantern  seemed  like  it  was  a-goin'  to  go 
out. 

"  Over  from  the  other  end  of  the  cellar  come  a 
faint  sound  like  the  splashin'  of  wotter,  drippin', 
drippin',  drippin'.  Pap  raised  hisself  on  his 
knees,  all  a-tremblin'.  They  was  another  spell  o' 
quiet ;  then  the  same  sound  of  a  foot-fall ;  then 
'nother  an'  'nother ;  an'  every  time  it  made  his 
heart  thump  like  'twould  break  an'  jarred  him  all 
over.  Out  o'  the  dark,  into  the  light  o'  the  lan- 
tern, come  the  figur'  of  an  ole  man,  walkin'  slow, 
step  be  step,  'crosst  the  cellar  toward  the  sugar 
bawrel.  Pap  rubbed  his  eyes  in  surprise,  fer  the 
felly  was  Ed  Harmon,  who  for  eight  year  had 
ben  layin'  in  the  Meth'dis'  buryin'-ground,  never 
missed.  He  wore  that  ole  shiny  black  coat  o' 
hisn,  his  broken,  patched  boots,  an'  gray  cap  ; 
'bout  his  neck  was  wound  a  blue  woolen  com- 
forter, an'  in  his  hand  he  kerried  a  bucket  o' 
wotter.  He'd  wrapped  a  piece  o'  paper  'round 
the  han'le  to  keep  it  from  cuttin'  his  fingers. 
His  face  was  all  white  like  it  used  to  be,  'cept  his 
nose,  which  was  red  from  his  drinkin'  too  much 


144  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

hard  cider.  He  walked  all  doubled  up,  fer  the 
bucket  seemed  to  blow  him  consid'able. 

"  Pap  laid  quiet  at  first,  he  was  so  scared,  trem- 
blin'  all  over,  with  his  teeth  chatterin'  to  beat  all. 
Sudden  Ed  stopped  right  under  the  lantern  an' 
set  the  bucket  down,  the  wotter  splashin'  over  the 
side  an'  goin*  up  in  a  fog  'hen  it  struck  the  floor. 
Then  he  straightened  up  like  to  stretch  his  back, 
an'  raised  his  hands  to  his  mouth  an'  begin  to 
blow  on  'em.  Pap  didn't  hear  no  sound  but  he 
seen  the  lamp  flickerin' ;  an'  at  the  sight  o'  Ed 
standin'  there  so  nat'ral  his  courage  come  back. 

"  After  the  ghos'  hed  stopped  a  minute  his  face 
twisted  like  he  was  groanin',  an'  he  picked  up  the 
bucket  an'  started  on  toward  the  sugar  bawrel. 
'Hen  Pap  seen  that,  he  clean  forgot  it  was  a  sper- 
rit,  it  looked  so  lifelike.  He  jumped  up  an'  run 
out  yellin1,  '  Here  you,  Ed  Harmon,  don't  you 
dast  put  that  wotter  on  my  sugar  ! ' 

"  The  ghos'  stopped,  turned  'round  an*  looked 
at  Pap.  Pap  stopped  an'  looked  at  the  ghos'. 
The  appyrition  set  the  bucket  down  easy  an' 
blowed  on  his  hands.  That  kind  o'  cooled  the 
ole  man. 

" '  You  uns  ain't  ben  treatin'  me  right,'  sais 
Pap,  polite  like,  *  dampin'  my  sugar  an'  sp'ilin'  my 
trade.' 

"  Ed  didn't  say  nawthin',  but  jest  looked  at 
him  quiet  like  an'  give  his  comforter  another  lap 
'round  the  neck. 


The  Haunted  Store.  145 

" '  Now,  see  here,'  sais  Pap,  a  leetle  louder. 
'  I've  found  you  out,  Ed  Harmon,  an'  I'll  make  it 
pretty  hot  fer  you  'round  these  parts  ef  you  don't 
let  up.' 

"  The  sperrit  turned  proud  like,  blowed  on  its 
hands,  leaned  over  an'  picked  up  the  bucket,  an' 
started  trampin*  toward  the  bawrel  agin.  Pap 
clean  forgot  hisself.  He  give  a  run  an'  a  kick  at 
the  pail,  for  he'd  no  desires  to  hurt  the  ole  man, 
but  'tended  jest  to  spill  the  wotter.  He  near 
dropped  dead  on  the  spot,  fer  his  feet  went  right 
inter  it  'thout  his  feelin'  it ;  the  ole  thing  broke 
in  a  dozen  pieces,  the  staves  fallin'  in  a  heap  on 
the  floor ;  the  wotter  'rose  up  in  a  fog  like,  an* 
fer  an  instant  he  could  see  nawthin'.  It  cleared 
away  an'  he  noticed  one  o'  the  hoops  rollin'  off 
inter  the  dark.  He  made  a  run  fer.it  an'  grabbed 
at  it,  but  his  hand  went  right  up  th'oo  it.  He 
th'owed  his  arm  out,  thinkin'  to  ketch  it  that  'ay. 
Ez  he  looked  up  he  seen  the  ole  hoop  revolvin' 
there  in  the  air  above  him.  He  give  a  wild  jump 
at  it.  His  hand  struck  the  lantern  an'  knocked 
it  off  the  nail.  They  was  a  loud  crash  ez  the  glass 
broke.  What  happened  after  that  he  didn't  know. 
I  found  him  sleepin'  on  the  pile  o'  sacks  next 
mornin'." 

"  Sights  !  "  cried  the  Chronic  Loafer.  He  drew 
his  chair  closer  into  the  circle,  which  by  this  time 
had  reached  the  smallest  possible  circumference. 

The  Tinsmith  glanced  surreptitiously  over  his 
10 


146  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

shoulder  toward  the  dark  corner  where  lay  the 
entrance  to  the  store-room. 

"  It  do  beat  all,"  he  said. 

From  the  mountains  there  came  the  low  rever- 
beration of  thunder.  The  storm  had  passed  the 
valley  and  now  the  rain  was  falling  lightly  and  the 
breeze  was  dying. 

"  Was  the  sugar  wet  next  day  ?  "  asked  the 
Miller,  nervously  biting  the  end  off  the  stem  of 
his  clay  pipe. 

"  Ssh  !     Listen  !  "  whispered  the  Loafer. 

There  was  no  sound  save  the  gentle  patter  of 
the  rain  and  the  swish  of  the  wind  in  the  maples 
outside  the  door. 

"  It  wasn't,"  the  Storekeeper  answered.  "  But 
the  trouble  began  a  week  later." 

"  It's  a  strange  story,"  said  the  Tinsmith,  "  an' 
ef  any  one  but  your  Pap  hed  told  it  I'd  hev  my 
suspitchions.  But  his  sugar  was  damp." 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

From  the  cellar  came  again  the  weird  sound, 
low  but  distinct. 

The  G.  A.  R.  Man  arose  and  seized  the  lamp 
from  the  counter. 

"  They  ain't  no  sech  things  ez  ghos',"  he  cried. 
"  This  is  all  foolershness.  Ef  you  fellys  comes 
we'll  find  out  what  that  is." 

He  shuffled  slowly  toward  the  dark  end  of  the 
store.  For  a  moment  his  companions  hesitated. 
Then  the  Storekeeper  joined  the  leader  of  the 


The  Haunted  Store.  147 

hazardous  enterprise  and  one  by  one  the  others 
followed.  They  tiptoed  through  the  door  ;  they 
wound  their  way  among  the  boxes  and  barrels 
that  filled  the  store-room,  and  reached  the  head  of 
the  stairway  that  led  to  the  cellar.  Here  the 
G.  A.  R.  Man  halted.  The  lamp  in  his  hand 
vibrated  to  and  fro,  throwing  grotesque  shadows 
on  the  white  ceiling  and  walls.  The  men  clus- 
tered about  him  and  gazed  timidly  into  the  dark- 
ness beneath.  He  placed  one  foot  on  the  step, 
then  stopped. 

"  They  ain't  no  sech  things  ez  ghos',"  he  said. 

"  Course  th-th-they  ain't,"  chattered  the  Miller, 
who  was  holding  the  Storekeeper  by  the  arm. 

"  It's  r-r-rats,"  the  Tinsmith  ventured. 

"  Or  a  1-1-loose  b-b-board,"  suggested  the  veteran. 

"  Foolershness,"  whispered  the  Loafer,  "  v-v-v- 
vestig-g-gatin'  ghosts  'hen  they  ain't  no  sech 
things.  The  Missus  is  settin'  up  fer  me  an'  I'll 
hev  to  be  goin'." 

"  Pap  allus  was  superstitchous,"  exclaimed  the 
Storekeeper,  as  he  made  his  way  back  through 
the  maze  of  boxes  and  barrels  to  the  store  in  the 
wake  of  the  Loafer.  The  others  were  hurrying 
along  in  the  rear. 

The  rain  had  ceased.  Overhead  the  black 
clouds,  visible  in  the  bright  starlight,  were  scurry- 
ing away  towards  the  hills.  The  G.  A.  R.  Man 
and  the  Loafer  were  parting  at  the  latter's  gate  at 
the  end  of  the  village. 


148  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

"  Hev  you  ben  gittin'  any  sugar  o'  him  lately  ?  " 
asked  the  veteran,  pointing  his  thumb  over  his 
shoulder  in  the  direction  whence  they  had  come. 

"  I  hev,"  replied  the  Loafer.  "An'  I  guess  ole 
Ed  Harmon  is  still  at  it." 

"  What  do  ye  think  it  was  ?  " 

"  It  might  'a'  ben  a  rat.  It  might  'a'  ben  a 
loose  board.  It  might  'a'  ben  a  hundred  things 
like  that.  I  ain't  superstitchous — not  a  bit  super- 
stitchous."  The  speaker  paused.  "  But  jest  the 
same  I  ain't  fer  investigatin'  ghosts,"  he  added. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Rivals. 

"  WHAT  was  the  question  fer  debate  ?  "  asked 
the  School  Teacher. 

"  Resawlved  that  the  Negro  is  more  worthy  o' 
government  support  than  the  Indian,"  replied  the 
Miller. 

"  And  the  decision  ?  " 

"  One  jedge  voted  fer  the  affirmative  an'  one 
fer  the  negative." 

"  And  the  third  ?  " 

"  That's  where  the  trouble  come.  Ye  see, 
Theophilus  Bones  was  the  third  jedge,  an'  he  got 
up  an'  sayd  that  after  hearin'  an'  weighin'  all  the 
argyments  o'  the  debaters  he  hed  to  concide  that 
neither  the  Negro  nor  the  Indian  was  worthy." 

"  Deadlocked  !  "  cried  the  pedagogue,  bringing 
his  chair  down  on  all  four  legs  with  a  crash,  wav- 
ing his  arms  and  snapping  his  fingers.  "  Dead- 
locked, sure.  What  did  ye  do  ?  " 

"  See  here,"  interrupted  the  Chronic  Loafer 
from  his  perch  on  a  sugar  barrel,  "  I  can't  see 
that  it  makes  any  diff  rence  what  they  done. 

149 


150  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

S'posin'  the  Airy  View  Liter' ry  Society  is  dead- 
locked. How's  the  poor  Injun  goin'  to  suffer  any 
more  by  it  ?  " 

"  But  did  you  uns  ever  see  sech  dum  jedges  ?  " 
asked  the  Miller  appealingly.  "  I  was  on  the 
negative." 

"  The  point  is  this,"  said  the  Teacher,  shaking 
his  cigar  at  the  occupant  of  the  barrel.  "  Here  is 
a  modern  liter'ry  society,  whose  main  purpose  is 
trainin'  its  members  in  the  art  of  debate.  An 
important  question  is  put  before  this  same  society 
for  formal  discussion,  and  yet  these  self-same 
trained  debaters  makes  their  points  so  badly  that 
one  o'  the  jedges  can't  decide  on  the  merits  o' 
the  question." 

"  It  ain't  so  bad  at  all,"  the  Tinsmith  exclaimed. 
"  I  once  heard  Aleck  Bolum  on  that  wery  ques- 
tion. He  argyed  both  affirmative  an'  negative. 
All  three  o'  the  jedges  was  deadlocked.  None  of 
'em  could  concide." 

"  Bolum  must  'a'  ben  a  wonderful  talker,"  the 
Loafer  said. 

"Wonderful?  Well,  I  guesst  he  was.  Why, 
it  was  his  debatin'  broke  up  the  Kishikoquillas 
Liter'ry  Society.  An'  that  was  a  flourishin'  or- 
ganization, too.  Me  an'  my  old  frien'  Perry 
Muthersbaugh  started  it  together.  After  he 
went  west  Andrew  Magill  tuk  a  holt  of  it.  He 
run  it  tell  Aleck  Bolum  stepped  in.  Then  it  was 
a  tug-o-war. 


Rivals.  151 

"  Bolum  was  a  livin'  Roberts-rules-of-order.  He 
was  a  walkin'  encyclopedy  of  information.  He 
knowd  it  an'  never  lost  no  opportunity  of  showin' 
it.  Kishikoquillas  schoolhouse  was  his  principal 
place  fer  exhibitin'.  From  the  time  Andrew 
Magill's  gavel  fell  on  Friday  night  tell  a  motion 
was  made  to  adjourn,  Aleck  was  on  his  feet.  Ef 
he  wasn't  gittin'  off  a  select  readin'  or  a  recyta- 
tion  or  debatin',  he  was  risin'  to  pints  of  order, 
appealin'  from  the  decision  o'  the  chair,  callin'  fer 
divisions  or  movin'  we  proceed  to  new  business. 
Ye  couldn't  git  any  fresh  wood  put  in  the  stove 
'thout  hevin'  him  move  the  'pointment  of  a  com- 
mittee to  do  it.  Ef  a  lamp  burned  low  he'd  want 
to  hev  it  referred  to  the  committee  on  lights. 
He  even  tried  to  git  the  recordin'  seckertary  im- 
peached because  she  kep'  the  minutes  in  lead- 
pencil." 

"  What  fer  a  lookin'  felly  was  this  Aleck 
Bolum  ?  "  asked  the  Chronic  Loafer. 

"  He  was  a  thin,  leetle  man,  with  a  clean-shaved, 
hatchet  face,  an'  a  bald  spot  on  the  top  o'  his 
head  over  which  he  plastered  a  few  skein  o' 
lemon-colored  hair." 

"  An'  he  wore  a  Prince  Al-bert  coat  ?  "  inquired 
the  Loafer  anxiously. 

"  Yes,  a  shiny  black  un.  An'  he'd  stand  up 
an'  th'ow  out  his  chist." 

"  Why,  that's  where  half  the  trouble  come," 
interrupted  the  Loafer.  "  Don't  you  know  that  ef 


1 52  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

ye  put  a  Prince  Al-bert  coat  on  a  clothes-horse, 
it*  11  stan'  right  up  an'  begin  argyin'  with  ye  ?  " 

"  My  dear  felly,"  replied  the  Tinsmith,  "  Aleck 
Bolum  'ud  'a'  argyed  in  his  grave  clothes.  They 
wasn't  no  stoppin'  him.  We  thot  mebbe  we  could 
quiet  him  be  givin'  him  an  office,  so  we  'lected  him 
correspondin'  seckertary,  cal'latin' he'd  hev  naw- 
thin'  to  do  an'  'ud  be  satisfied  with  the  honor. 
We'd  complete  misjedged  him.  He  got  up  a  de- 
bate be  correspondence  with  a  liter'ry  society  out 
in  Kansas  an'  tuk  up  half  our  evenin's  readin' 
reports  on  it. 

"  So  Aleck  Bolum  didn't  give  Andrew  Magill 
much  chancet,  even  tho'  he  was  president.  It 
went  hard  with  Andrew,  too,  fer  he  liked  to  fill 
in  all  the  cracks  in  the  meetin'  hisself,  an'  ob- 
jected to  havin'  Aleck  bobbin'  up  with  pints  of 
order  every  time  he  opened  his  mouth.  But  fer 
my  part  I  allus  preferred  Bolum  to  Magill.  Bo- 
lum wasn't  musical.  Magill  was.  'Henever  one 
o'  the  reg'lar  men  on  the  progrim  'ud  fail  to  be 
on  hand  an'  he  could  head  Aleck  off,  Andrew  'ud 
git  up  an'  say,  '  Mister  So-an'-so,  who  hed  the 
ess'y  fer  the  evenin',  bein'  absent,  the  chair  has 
consented  to  fill  in  the  interval  be  singin'  a  solo.' 
Or  the  chair  'ud  sing  a  duet  with  the  seckertary  ; 
or  the  chair  'ud  sing  an  anthem  'sisted  be  the  so- 
ciety quartette.  Then  he'd  stand  up  with  his 
music  marks  an'  start  away  on  twenty  verses  about 
Mother  or  Alice. 


Rivals.  153 

"  Things  kept  gittin'  worse  an*  worse.  They 
final  come  to  a  head  one  night  'hen  Aleck  Bolum 
rose  to  a  pint  of  order  durin'  one  of  Andrew's 
highest  notes.  Magill  hed  to  stop  singin'  an'  ast 
him  to  state  his  pint.  Then  Aleck  moved  the 
solo  be  the  president  be  taken  up  under  onfinished 
business.  Andrew  jest  choked, 

"  'Hen  the  president  got  th'oo  chokin,'  we  tuk 
up  the  debate.  Everything  was  subdued  like. 
Andrew  set  on  the  platform  wery  quiet  an'  sol- 
emn. The  debaters  didn't  put  no  heart  in  their 
work  fer  they  was  busy  keepin'  one  eye  on  him  an' 
the  other  on  Bolum.  Every  one  was  kind  o' 
nervous  an'  hushed — that  is,  every  one  'cept  Aleck. 
He  argyed  that  the  pen  was  mightier  then  the 
sword  in  the  reg'lar  debate.  'Hen  the  argyment 
was  th'owed  open  to  all  he  got  up  agin  an'  proved 
that  the  sword  was  mightier  then  the  pen. 

"  We  got  th'oo  with  the  debate  an'  nawthin' 
hed  happened.  Then  Andrew  Magill  rose  to 
give  out  the  progrim  fer  the  next  meetin'.  He 
looked  solemn  like  at  his  paper  a  minute ;  then 
gazed  'round  the  room.  Ye  could  'a'  heard  a  pin 
drop. 

"  '  Several  o'  our  members,'  sais  he,  '  complains 
that  they  ain't  hed  no  opportunity  to  be  heard 
afore  this  society.  This  progrim  is  got  up  espe- 
cial to  satisfy  these  gentlemen.' 

"  An'  the  progrim  fer  the  follyin'  Friday,  which 
he  read  out,  run  like  this :  '  Readin'  o'  the  Scrip- 


154  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

tur'  be  the  president ;  roll  call ;  select  readin',  Mr. 
Aleck  Bolum  ;  recytation,  Mr.  Aleck  Bolum  ;  ex- 
temporaneous oration,  Mr.  Aleck  Bolum  ;  ess'y, 
The  True  Patriot,  Mr.  Aleck  Bolum  ;  debate,  Re- 
sawlved  that  works  o'  natur'  is  more  beautiful  then 
works  o'  art — affirmative,  Mr.  Aleck  Bolum  ;  neg- 
ative, Mr.  Aleck  Bolum.' 

"Andrew  finished  an'  set  down  in  his  chair. 
They  wasn't  even  a  whisper  fer  every  eye  in  the 
room  was  turned  on  the  correspondin'  seckertary. 
He  arose  deliberate  like,  cleared  his  th'oat, 
th'owed  open  his  coat  so  his  red  tie  showed  bet- 
ter, put  the  thumb  o'  his  left  hand  in  his  waist- 
coat pocket,  raised  the  other  hand,  pintin'  his  fore- 
finger at  the  president.  We  was  ready  fer  some- 
thin'  hot. 

" '  Mr.  Chairman,'  he  sayd,  never  crackin'  a 
smile,  '  I  desires  right  here  to  express  my  ap- 
proval o'  this  new  plan  o'  yours  o'  hevin'  the 
same  man  debate  both  sides  o'  the  question.  It's 
an  excellent  idee.  Under  the  ole  rule,  where  the 
debater  was  allowed  to  speak  only  on  one  side, 
we  developed  lopsided  speakers.  An'  I  want  to 
say  right  here  an*  now  an'  to  everybody  in  this 
room  that  I,  fer  my  part,  '11  do  my  best  to  make 
next  week's  meetin'  beneficial  to  us  all.' 

"  'Hen  Andrew  Magill  seen  how  he'd  played 
right  into  Aleck  Bolum's  hand,  thots  failed  to  ex- 
press his  indignation.  He  adjourned  the  meetin', 
blowed  out  the  lamps,  put  on  his  overcoat  an'  hat 


Rivals.  155 

an'  walked  outen  the  school-house  an'  down  the 
road,  jest  all  bubblin'  over.  But  Andrew  wasn't 
easy  beaten.  He'd  no  idee  o*  settin'  all  evenin' 
listenin'  to  Aleck  Bolum's  ess'ysan'  select  readin's. 
He  slipped  'round  'mongthe  members  on  the  quiet 
an'  explained  how  he'd  an  invite  from  the  Happy 
Grove  Social  Singin'  Club,  to  bring  the  whole  so- 
ciety up  there  the  follyin'  Friday.  He  explained 
what  a  good  un  it  'ud  be  on  Aleck  'hen  he  got  to 
the  schoolhouse  with  his  progrim  all  prepared  an' 
found  fer  an  aud'ence — Mr.  Aleck  Bolum.  An' 
ez  he  offered  to  kerry  three  sled  loads  o'  members 
to  the  grove  hisself,  everybody  agreed.  It  really 
begin  to  look  ez  ef  Aleck  was  goin'  to  be 
squelched. 

"  The  snow  was  two  feet  deep,  an'  the  sleighin' 
was  fine.  It  tuk  jest  'bout  an  hour  an'  a  half  to 
cover  the  twelve  mile  'tween  Kishikoquillas  an' 
Happy  Grove.  We'd  a  splendid  time,  too.  An- 
drew was  in  high  sperrits.  He  pictured  Aleck  a- 
runnin'  the  liter'ry  meetin'  all  hisself,  an'  give  an 
imytation  o'  the  debate  on  the  question  whether 
works  o'  natur'  was  more  beautiful  then  works  of 
art.  It  was  killin'.  I  mind  now  how  Andrew  hed 
jest  started  in  showin'  us  Bolum's  recytation,  'hen 
we  reached  the  clearin'  where  the  school-house 
stood. 

"  The  place  was  dark,  absolute  dark,  an'  the 
door  was  locked.  They  wasn't  a  soul  in  sight. 
Magill  got  out  his  watch.  It  sayd  eight-fifteen 


156  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

an'  the  singin'  school  was  set  fer  eight.  It  looked 
pecul'ar.  We  guesst  we'd  better  wait.  So  one 
o'  the  boys  climbed  th'oo  a  winder  an'  unlocked 
the  door,  an'  we  all  went  in.  A  few  can'les  was 
found  an'  lit.  Then  we  set  down  to  watch  fer  the 
arrival  o'  the  Happy  Grove  Social  Singin'  Club. 
They  wasn't  any  fire,  an'  the  place  was  cold  an' 
disygreeable.  Some  wanted  to  go  home,  but 
Andrew  sayd  no.  We  was  the  club's  guests. 
Some  of  'em  'ud  be  'long  any  minute.  It 
wouldn't  be  right  fer  them  to  find  us  gone.  So 
we  kep'  settin',  an'  wonderin',  an'  guessin'. 

"  At  the  end  of  an  hour  we  hear  sleigh-bells 
down  the  road.  Then  they  was  a  stampin'  o' 
boots  outside  on  the  portico. 

"  '  Here  they  is  at  last,'  sais  Andrew,  gittin'  up 
on  the  platform  an'  rappin'  fer  order. 

"The  door  opened.  In  steps  Aleck  Bolum. 
The  whole  society  give  a  groan. 

"'What's  the  trouble?'  sais  he,  walkin'  to  the 
middle  o'  the  room.  '  I  don't  hear  no  singin'.' 

"  The  society  jest  hung  their  heads  an'  looked 
sheepish. 

" '  Where's  the   Happy  Grove    Social    Singin 
Club  ? '  sais  he  pleasant  like.     '  I  sees  only  our 
own  members.' 

"  No  one  sayd  nawthin'. 

"  Aleck  unwound  his  comforter,  unbottoned  his 
coat,  th'owed  out  his  chist  an'  cried,  '  Mr.  Chair- 
man, hev  I  the  floor  ? ' 


Rivals.  157 

"  Magill  kind  o'  mumbled. 

"  '  Then,'  sais  Bolum, '  mebbe  I  can  th'ow  some 
light  on  the  hushed  voices  I  see  gethered  'round 
me  here  to-night.  Firstly,  I'd  like  to  say  that 
we'd  a  most  excellent  meetin'  at  Kishikoquillas 
this  evenin'.  After  we  adjourned  I  thot  I'd  run 
up  here  an'  see  how  you  was  makin'  out,  fer  I  hed 
pecul'ar  interest  in  this  getherin'.  Th'oo  some 
mistake  I  was  not  properly  notified  that  our 
members  was  comin'  here,  but  I  learned  of  it.  I 
wanted  to  see  the  Kishikoquillas  Liter' ry  Society 
do  itself  proud  to-night  at  music  ez  well  ez  litera- 
ture. So  in  my  capacity  ez  correspondin*  secker- 
tary  I  got  up  a  musical  progrim  yeste'day  an' 
forwarded  it  to  the  president  of  the  Happy  Grove 
Social  Singin'  Club,  explainin'  how  our  organiza- 
tion 'ud  entertain  his  organization  to-night  with 
melody,  instrumental  an'  vocal.' 

"  Bolum  stopped  an'  drawed  a  paper  out  o'  his 
pocket. 

" '  Will  the  seckertary  please  read  the  progrim  ? ' 
he  sayd. 

"Josiah  Weller  tuk  the  paper.  He  looked 
at  it.  Then  he  piked  one  eye  on  the  presi- 
dent. 

"  '  Ye  may  read  the  progrim,  Mr.  Seckertary,' 
sais  Andrew,  weiy  dignified. 

"  An'  Josiah  read  like  this, '  The  Kishikoquillas 
Liter'ry  Society  will  be  pleased  to  render  fer  the 
entertainment  o'  the  Happy  Grove  Social  Singin' 


158  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

Club  the  follyin'  selections:  bass-horn  solo,  The 
Star  Spangled  Banner,  Mr.  Andrew  Magill.' 

"  The  chairman's  gavel  come  down  on  the  table, 
an*  he  rose  an'  said,  '  I  feels  flattered  be  Mr.  Bolum 
puttin'  me  on  the  progrim,  but  he  otter  'a'  notified 
me,  so  I  could  'a'  brung  me  horn.' 

" '  Go  on,  Mr.  Seckertary,'  sais  Aleck,  wery 
cool. 

"  Josiah  continyerd, '  Vocal  solo,  I  see  Mother's 
Face  at  the  Window,  Mr.  Andrew  Magill.' 

"  The  Chairman  looked  wery  pleased. 

"  '  Go  on,  Mr.  Seckertary,'  sayd  Aleck. 

" '  An  ole  time  jig,  jewsharp  an'  harmonica 
mixed,  Mr.  Andrew  Magill ;  voca)  solo,  Meet  Me 
Alice  at  the  Golden  Gate,  Mr.  Andrew  Magill ; 
anthem,  Angel  Voices,  Mr.  Andrew  Magill,  'sisted 
be  the  society.' 

"  Josiah  Weller  didn't  git  no  furder.  They  was 
a  low  roar  went  over  the  room.  Some  felly  in 
the  rear  'lowed  we  otter  put  him  in  the  pond. 
But  they  wasn't  no  one  to  put.  Aleck  Bolum 
hed  dissypeared.  We  got  to  the  door  in  time  to 
hear  his  sleigh-bells  jinglin'  way  off  th'oo  the 
woods.  Seemed  like  we  could  'most  hear  him 
chucklin',  too." 

"  But  what  hed  become  o'  the  Happy  Grove 
Social  Singin'  Club  ?  "  asked  the  Miller.  "  Why 
wasn't  they  there  ?  " 

"  I  guesst  you  never  heard  Andrew  Magill  sing, 
did  ye  ?  "  replied  the  Tinsmith. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Buddies. 

THE  Patriarch  sat  on  the  store  porch.  An  old 
cob  pipe,  the  smoke  oozing  lazily  from  its  mouth, 
protruded  from  the  recesses  of  his  white  beard. 
His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  mountains  over  whose 
sides  the  black,  sharp  shadows  of  the  clouds  were 
wandering.  His  mood  was  so  pensive  as  to 
awaken  the  curiosity  of  the  Storekeeper,  who  had 
been  watching  the  old  man  sitting  upright  on  the 
bench,  his  gaze  fastened  on  the  distant  hills. 

"  What  are  ye  thinkin'  of,  Gran'pap  ? "  the 
young  man  asked. 

"  I  was  thinkin'  o'  Hen  Wheedle.  I  hain't  thot 
o'  him  fer  a  year,  so  I  sais  to  meself  to-day,  I  sais, 
'  You  otter  think  o'  Hen  Wheedle ! '  An'  I  set 
right  down,  an'  a  mighty. good  time  I've  hed  a 
medytatin'  over  him." 

The  Miller  laid  the  county  paper  over  his  knees 
and  smoothed  it  out.  Then  he  looked  at  the 
Patriarch. 

"  My  souls !  "  he  cried.  "  Why,  Hen's  ben  over 
the  mo'ntain  nigh  onto  forty  year." 

159 


160  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

"  That's  jest  the  pint,"  was  the  rejoinder. 
"  'Hen  folks  is  gone  ye  otter  think  on  'em." 

To  the  old  man  there  was  nothing  beyond  the 
mountains  but  infinite  space.  To  him  the  world 
was  bounded  by  the  green  range  before  him  and 
the  range  back  by  the  river.  The  two  sprang  out 
of  the  blue  at  a  point  some  nine  miles  to  the 
north,  went  their  own  ways  some  fifteen  miles  to 
the  south,  joined,  and  made  the  valley  and  the 
world.  To  go  over  the  mountain  to  him  meant 
voluntary  annihilation.  He  would  step  off  into 
space  beyond  and  become  nothingness.  In  the 
seventy-five  years  of  his  life  he  had  known  men  to 
return,  but  it  was  as  though  they  had  arisen  from 
the  dead. 

"  You  uns  knowd  Hen  Wheedle  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  He  was  afore  my  time  but  I've  heard  o'  him," 
replied  the  Miller. 

The  Chronic  Loafer  looked  up  from  the  steps, 
where  he  had  been  sitting,  whittling  a  piece  of 
soft  white  pine. 

"  I  s'posn  you've  heard  o'  Bill  Siler  ?  "  he  asked, 
in  a  pleasant,  alluring  tone. 

"  Bill  Siler,"  repeated  the  Miller.  He  laid  his 
forefinger  against  his  forehead  and  thought  a 
minute.  "  I  think  I  hev.  His  name's  wery  famil- 
'ar.  But  why  did  ye  ast  ?  " 

"  Oh,  jest  because  I've  noticed  that  most  every- 
body was  afore  your  time  an'  you've  heard  o'  'em. 
I  never  knowd  Bill  Siler.  His  name  was  jest 


Buddies.  161 

ginirated  in  my  head,  an'  I  thot  ye  might  tell 
me  who  he  was." 

"  You  thot  ye'd  ketch  me,  heigh,"  cried  the 
other.  "  Ye  thot  ye'd  be  smart  an' " 

"  Boys,  boys,"  the  Patriarch  shook  his  stick  at 
his  companions.  "  Don't  quarrel — don't.  Mebbe 
some  day  one  o'  ye'll  go  over  the  mo'ntain  an' 
then  every  mean  word  ye  ever  sayd'll  come  back. 
Mean  words  is  like  them  wooden  balls  on  a  'las- 
tic  string  that  they  sells  the  children  at  the  county 
fair.  The  harder  they  is  an'  the  wiolenter  ye 
th'ow  'em  the  quicker  they  bounces  home  to  ye 
an'  the  more  they  hurt.  I  otter  know.  Hen 
Wheedle  otter  know.  Why  every  time  he  thinks 
o'  me  his  conscience  must  jest  roll  around  inside 
o'  him."  The  light  in  the  old  man's  pipe  had 
gone  out.  He  applied  a  sulphur  match  to  it  and 
sneezed  violently.  "  But  I've  forgot  the  wrong 
Hen  done  me.  He  must  'a'  suffered  innardly  fer 
it.  Ef  he  ever  returns  I'll  put  this  right  hand  in 
hisn  an'  say,  '  Hen,  you  done  wrong,  but  you've 
suffered  innardly  an'  I  fergive  ye.'  They's  a  heap 
o'  difference  'tween  plain,  ord'nary  sufferin'  inside 
o'  ye,  an'  sufferin'  innardly.  Fer  the  first  ye  takes 
bitters,  stops  smokin'  an'  in  a  day  you're  all  right. 
But  'hen  the  conscience  gits  out  o'  order  all  the 
bitters  in  the  world  an'  all  the  stoppin'  smokin' 
in  creation'll  give  ye  no  ease.  That's  what  I  sais, 
an'  I  otter  know,  fer  I  can  jest  see  how  Hen 

Wheedle  feels." 
ii 


1 62  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

No  sulphurous  fume  was  blazing  around  the 
Patriarch's  nose,  but  he  sneezed  again  and  choked 
himself  with  a  piece  of  canton-flannel  that  served 
him  as  a  handkerchief. 

'  Hen  an'  me  was  raised  on  joinin*  farms.  From 
the  time  we  was  big  enough  to  gether  eggs  we 
was  buddies.  At  school  the  boy  that  licked  me 
had  to  lick  both  ;  the  boy  that  was  licked  be  one 
was  licked  be  both.  It  was  a  reg'lar  caset  o' 
David  an'  Joshuay  all  over  agin. 

"  They's  only  one  thing  in  the  world'll  separate 
buddies  like  me  an*  him  was.  A  crow-bar  won't 
do  it ;  a  gun  won't ;  nothin'  won't  but  a  combina- 
tion o'  yeller  hair  an'  dreamy  blue  eyes  an'  pink 
cheeks.  Melissy  Flower  hed  'em  all.  But  what 
she  done  she  didn't  do  intentional.  I  didn't  want 
her  without  Hen  hevin'  her ;  he  didn't  want  her 
v/ithout  me  hevin'  her — so  they  was  a  hitch.  We 
used  to  go  over  to  her  house  together  allus,  an' 
we'd  sing  duets  to  her  melodium  playin'.  He 
sung  tenor  an'  I  bass.  At  the  eend  of  each  piece 
she  distributed  her  praise  jest  equal.  'Hen  we 
wasn't  hevin'  music  we'd  be  on  the  settee,  all 
three,  first  him,  then  her,  then  me.  Ef  Hen  was 
so  fortnit  ez  to  catch  the  sparkle  o'  her  eyes, 
she'd  turn  her  head  my  way  an'  give  me  a  chancet 
too. 

"  Now  things  went  on  this  way  tell  one  night 
we  was  comin'  home  from  her  house  together. 
We  reached  the  covered  bridge  where  the  road 


Buddies.  163 

dewided,  one  fork  goin'  to  his  placet  an'  one  to 
mine.  How  clear  I  remembers  it ! 

"  '  Henry/  I  sais,  lookin'  right  inter  his  eyes — 
it  was  moonlight  an'  I  could  almost  read  his  thots, 
'  Henry,  it  seems  to  me  like  you've  ben  thinkin' 
more  'an  usual  o'  Melissy  lately.' 

"  '  I  was  thinkin'  the  same  of  you,'  sais  he. 

" '  You're  right/  I  answers.  '  But  I  won't  treat 
no  buddy  o'  mine  mean/ 

" '  An'  the  same  with  me/  sais  he. 

"  We  was  quiet  a  piece.  Then  I  sais,  *  Henry, 
ef  ever  I  finds  I  can't  stand  it  no  longer  I'll  tell 
you/ 

" '  An'  ef  ever  I  gits  the  same  way  I'll  tell  you/ 
sais  he. 

"  We  shook  hands  an'  went  home. 

"  I  s'pose  things  'ud  'a'  gone  on  ez  they  was  fer 
a  good  many  year  hed  not  a  young  town  felly 
from  up  the  walley  come  drivin'  down  in  slick 
clothes  an'  in  a  slick  buggy.  You  uns  hev  all 
heard  the  old  sayin'  that  it  ain't  the  clothes  that 
makes  the  man.  Ye  never  heard  the  proverb  that 
it  ain't  the  paint  that  makes  the  house,  did  ye  ? 
I  guess  ye  didn't,  yit  it's  jest  'bout  ez  sensible. 
It  ain't  the  paint  that  makes  the  house,  but  it's 
the  paint  that  keeps  the  boards  from  rottin'  an' 
the  hull  thing  from  fallin'  to  pieces  out  o'  pure 
bein'  ashamed  o'  itself.  Solerman  was  the  wisest 
man  that  ever  lived,  yit  the  Bible  sais  that  he 
allus  run  to  fine  raiment.  He  hed  a  thousand 


164  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

an'  odd  wives  an'  knowd  well  enough  that  he 
wouldn't  hev  no  peace  with  'em  ef  he  run  'round 
in  his  bare  feet  an'  overalls.  'Hen  the  Queen  o' 
Sheby  called  on  him  ye  can  bet  your  bottom  dol- 
lar she  didn't  find  him  settin'  on  the  throne  with 
a  hickory  shirt  'thout  no  collar,  an'  his  second-best 
pants  held  up  be  binder-twine  galluses." 

The  old  man  had  been  talking  very  fast  and 
was  out  of  breath.  He  paused  to  gather  the 
threads  of  his  story. 

The  School  Teacher  seized  the  opportunity  to 
remark :  "  An'  yet  Solerman  in  all  his  glory  was" 
restless  an'  unhappy." 

"  He  knowd  too  much,"  drawled  the  Loafer, 
looking  up  from  his  stick.  "  An'  Gran'pap,  with 
all  of  his  wisdom,  with  all  the  good  uns  he  sayd, 
Solerman  never  knowd  what  it  was  to  light  his 
ole  pipe  an'  set  plumb  down  on  the  wood-pile  an' 
play  witfi  the  dog.  Why,  he'd  sp'iled  his  gown." 

"  Boys,"  resumed  the  Patriarch,  "  slick  clothes 
an'  a  slick  hoss  an'  a  slick  buggy  goes  ten  times 
furder  with  a  woman  then  a  slick  brain.  She  can 
see  a  man's  clothes  ;  she  can  see  his  hoss ;  she  can 
see  his  buggy.  But  it  takes  her  fifty  year  to  git 
her  eyes  adjusted  so  she  can  see  his  mind.  That's 
why  I  got  worrit  'hen  this  here  Perry  felly  got  to 
drivin'  down  to  wisit  Melissy.  He  come  oncet ;  he 
come  agin,  an'  I  begin  thinkin'  more  o'  him  then  I 
did  o'  the  girl.  Sometimes  it  seemed  like  I  was  goin' 
mad  yit  I  couldn't  do  nawthin'  on  Hen's  account. 


Buddies.  165 

Many  an  afternoon  I  set  here  on  this  wery  porch 
rewolvin'  it  over  an'  over  :  '  Ef  I  don't  git  her  I'll 
die  ;  ef  I  git  her  Hen'll  die  ;  ef  Perry  gits  her  both 
on  us'll  die.'  It  was  a  hard  puzzle.  A  couple  o' 
times  I  was  near  solvin'  it  be  leavin'  the  main  part 
o'  the  sufferin'  to  the  other  fellys,  but  then  I 
minded  how  Hen  looked  at  me  that  night  ez  we 
parted  at  the  fork  o'  the  road,  an'  I  sais, '  I'll  treat 
no  buddy  o'  mine  mean.  Git  behind  me,  Satan, 
an'  make  yerself  comf 'table  tell  I  need  ye,' 

"  But  one  afternoon  'hen  I  was  feelin'  petickler 
low  in  sperrits,  oneasy,  onrastless,  I  seen  Perry 
drivin'  th'oo,  his  hoss  curried  tell  his  coat  was 
smooth  ez  silk,  his  buggy  shinin'  like  it  'ud  blind 
me,  an'  him  settin'  inside  in  a  full  new  suit  o'  clothes. 
I  knowd  she  couldn't  stand  all  that  wery  long. 
So  after  supper  I  went  right  over  to  Wheedle's  to 
git  Hen,  'lowin'  we'd  go  down  to  Flower's  an'  let 
Melissy  settle  the  business  be  choosin'.  He 
wasn't  een.  His  ma  sayd  he'd  jest  left,  but  she 
s'posed  he'd  be  right  hum  agin.  So  I  fixed  me- 
self  on  the  pump  trough  an'  waited.  My,  but 
them  hours  did  drag  !  The  sun  set  an'  it  got  dark. 
I  could  look  down  the  hill  to  Flower's  placet  an' 
see  a  light  twinklin'  in  the  best  room  where  I 
knowd  she  was  with  Perry.  I  pictured  her  at  the 
melodium  twiddlin'  her  fingers  soft-like  over  the 
keys  while  he  leaned  over  her  singin', '  Thine  eyes 
so  blue  an'  tender.'  Boys,  it  was  terrible — terrible. 
The  lamp  was  allus  a-twinklin'  to  me  to  hurry  up. 


j  66  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

Then  final  it  seemed  to  git  tired  an'  went  out.  It 
was  only  eight  o'clock.  Now  I  pictured  'em  set- 
tin'  in  the  dark.  I  wanted  to  leave  right  there 
an'  run  down  the  hill,  but  I  sais,  '  No  ;  I'll  treat 
no  buddy  o*  mine  mean.' 

"  By  an'  by  the  moon  come  up  an'  the  chickens 
in  the  barn  quit  cluckin'  at  the  rats.  I  begin  to 
git  dozy  an'  leaned  my  head  agin  the  pump. 
'Hen  I  come  to  me  senses  the  roosters  was  crowin' 
an*  the  light  was  creepin'  over  the  ridges  yander. 
I  went  home.  Ez  I  come  'round  the  corner  o' 
the  house,  there  I  see  Hen  Wheedle  sound 
asleep  on  the  back  stoop. 

"  '  Hen,'  sais  I,  '  what  hev  you  ben  doin'  ? ' 

"  '  Waitin*  fer  you,'  he  answers,  ez  he  gits  up 
an'  rubs  his  eyes.  '  I  come  over  last  night  to  git 
you  an'  go  over  to  Flower's.  Perry's  there.' 

"  I  told  him  how  I'd  waited  all  night  fer  him,  an' 
he  jest  groaned.  He  had  'em  wery  bad.  I  mind 
oncet  readin'  in  the  weemen's  column  in  the  papef 
how  spilt  milk  could  be  sopped  up  with  a  sponge. 
It  seemed  jest  ez  tho'  that  was  what  we  was  doin' 
'hen  we  went  over  to  Flower's  that  mornin'.  It 
was  wery  early  an'  we'd  a  long  time  to  wait  'fore 
Melissy  come  down  to  git  breakfast.  Then  Hen 
an'  me  stepped  inter  the  kitchen. 

"  I  thot  she'd  faint. 

"  '  Why,  you're  airly,'  she  sais. 

"  '  We've  come  airly  a  purpose,  Melissy,'  sais  I 
'  We  wants  you  to  choose  atween  us.' 


Buddies.  167 

"  That  girl  must  'a'  thot  a  heap  o'  one  o'  we 
two — which  un  I  don't  know,  but  one  sure,  fer 
she  kind  o'  fell  agin  the  table,  graspin'  it  fer 
support.  She  raised  her  apron  over  her  face  an' 
gasped  like. 

"  '  Take  whichever  one  ye  want,'  sais  Hen  kind 
o'  soft. 

"  She  didn't  answer. 

"  '  Don't  keep  us  een  suspenders,'  sais  I. 

"  Then  the  apron  fell  from  her  face,  showin'  it 
all  a  rosy  red,  an'  she  tells  us,  '  Boys,  I'm  awful 
sorry,  but  you're  late.  I  tuk  Perry  last  night.' 

"  Hen  an'  me  turned  on  our  heels  an'  walked 
out.  We  didn't  say  nawthin'  tell  we  come  to  the 
fork  in  the  road. 

"  Hen  stopped  an'  wentured,  '  We've  ben 
fools.' 

" '  We  hev,'  I  sais. 

" '  Them  town  fellys  doesn't  last  long,'  sais  he 
after  a  spell.  '  She's  like  to  be  a  widdy.' 

"  '  In  which  caset,'  sais  I,  *  our  agreement  stands. 
We  notify  each  other  'fore  we  ast  her.' 

"  '  It  does,'  he  answers,  quiet  an'  wery  solemn. 
'  We've  allus  ben  buddies,  you  an'  me,  an'  we  allus 
will  be.' 

"  Melissy  Flower  become  a  widdy  ez  Hen 
'lowed  an'  a  mighty  nice  un,  too.  Perry  was 
hardly  cold  tell  me  an'  Wheedle  was  over  singin' 
duets  with  her.  The  ole  trouble  come  on  agin  fer 
me  worse  than  ever,  but  this  time  I  made  up  me 


1 68  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

mind  I  wouldn't  be  fooled.  'Hen  I  could  stand  it 
no  longer,  I  walks  one  night  over  to  Wheedle's  to 
notify  him.  He  wasn't  there.  I'd  'a'  gone  on  to 
Flower's  but  I  minded  our  agreement  an'  was  true. 
It  was  a  temptation,  but  I'd  never  treat  no  buddy  o' 
mine  mean.  I  was  true.  It  come  twelve  o'clock 
an'  they  was  no  sign  o'  him,  so  I  went  back  home 
feelin'  a  leetle  heavy  here."  The  old  man  laid 
his  hand  across  the  watch-pocket  of  his  waistcoat. 
"  Next  day  they  was  a  postal  in  the  mail  fer  me. 
It  was  from  Hen,  an'  it  run  like  this  :  '  I'm  on  me 
way  to  Flower's  to  ast  her.  I  drop  this  in  the  box 
to  notify  you  ez  I  promised.' 

"  That's  the  way  he  give  me  notice.  While  I 
was  waitin'  to  notify  him  right,  he  was  astin'  her. 
He  done  wrong.  His  conscience  was  agin  him, 
fer  'hen  I  went  over  to  his  placet  to  give  him  an 
idee  what  I  thot,  I  found  him  an'  she  hed  gone — 
gone  over  the  mo'ntain  yander." 

The  Patriarch  arose  and  shook  his  stick  angrily 
at  the  distant  hills.  He  shook  it  until  his  strength 
had  given  out  and  his  anger  had  ebbed  away. 

"  That  was  forty  year  ago,"  he  said  after  a  long 
silence,  "  but  ef  ever  Hen  Wheedle  comes  back 
I'll  lay  this  here  right  hand  in  hisn  an'  say,  '  Hen, 
you  done  wrong,  but  you've  suffered  innardly. 
I  fergive  ye.' " 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Joe  Earner  s  Belling. 

THE  wind  rattled  the  windows  and  made  creepy, 
unpleasant  noises  in  the  trees  outside.  At  long 
intervals  it  ventured  down  the  chimney  with 
sudden  spurts  and  playfully  blew  the  smoke  out 
into  the  room,  causing  momentary  discomfort 
to  the  eyes  of  all  three  of  us.  Then  as  quickly 
it  would  retire,  giving  a  triumphant  whistle  as 
though  it  enjoyed  the  joke  hugely.  The  soot 
would  come  tumbling  down  and  envelop  the 
flames  in  a  cloud  of  black  dust.  A  crackle,  a 
splutter,  and  the  logs  blazed  up  as  cheerily  as 
ever. 

I  stretched  my  feet  toward  the  fire  and  buried 
myself  deeper  in  my  great  arm-chair.  Flash,  the 
setter,  curled  at  my  side,  poking  his  nose  between 
his  fore-paws,  fixed  his  earnest  eyes  on  a  tiny 
tongue  of  flame  that  was  eating  its  way  along  a 
gnarled  bit  of  hickory.  Facing  us,  rocking  slowly 
to  and  fro  on  two  legs  of  his  frail  wooden  chair, 
was  Theophilus  Winter,  the  lawyer  and  our  com- 
panion on  many  a  day's  hunt.  This  was  to 

169 


170  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

Theophilus  the  acme  of  comfort,  for  he  had  a  good 
cigar  for  an  inspiration  and  the  best  of  audiences, 
an  intelligent  dog  and  a  tired  man. 

*  Yes,  as  I  was  saying  before  that  last  gust  in- 
terrupted us,  I  am  not  a  superstitious  man,  but  as 
long  as  no  harm  can  come  of  it  I  prefer  to  plant 
my  garden  in  the  right  sign.  While  I  am  not  in 
the  least  superstitious  I  must  confess  some  tim- 
idity on  this  one  point — that  is,  as  to  passing  the 
small  log  house  that  stands  just  at  the  foot  of  the 
ridge  on  the  road  to  Kishikoquillas  on  the  night 
of  the  twenty-ninth  of  December,  or  indeed 
almost  any  time  after  sunset.  Not  that  I  am 
afraid — far  from  it — but  strange  tales  have  been 
abroad  for  the  last  thirty  years  regarding  the  do- 
ings there  after  nightfall.  They  say  that  the 
sound  of  fiddles  can  be  heard,  the  clanging  of 
cow-bells  and  occasionally  the  dull  report  of  a 
gun.  This,  the  young  folks  declare,  is  the  ghosts 
belling  Joe  Varner. 

"  Perhaps  you  have  seen  the  house  of  which  I 
have  spoken.  It  stands  in  a  little  clearing,  about 
fifty  feet  from  the  roadside.  The  great  stone  chim- 
ney is  now  almost  completely  demolished.  The 
plaster  daubing  has  fallen  from  the  chinks  between 
the  logs,  revealing  to  the  passer-by  the  barren  in- 
terior. The  glass  has  been  removed  from  the 
shattered  windows  to  let  the  light  into  some  more 
respectable  dwelling.  The  weeds  and  briars  grow 
rank  over  all.  The  place  presented  a  far  different 


Joe  Varner's  Belling.  171 

picture  thirty  years  ago.  Then  all  was  scrupu- 
lously clean.  Not  a  stone  on  the  chimney  top 
was  out  of  place,  not  an  iota  of  daubing  had 
fallen  away,  nor  was  the  smallest  spot  left  un- 
whitewashed.  Everywhere  was  the  evidence  of 
industry  and  thrift. 

"For  twenty  years  Joe  Varner  had  lived  his 
lonely  life  there,  with  no  other  companion  than  a 
mongrel  dog.  He  was  a  strange  man,  tall  and 
gaunt  in  appearance,  taciturn  and  surly  in  man- 
ner, doing  his  bad  deeds  in  public  and  his  good 
ones  in  private,  for  his  pride  would  not  allow  him 
to  parade  the  latter  before  his  neighbors.  Yet 
with  it  all  he  was  at  heart  a  kindly  old  fellow  who 
had  simply  been  spoiled  by  his  way  of  living. 
And  why  he  had  chosen  this  way  was  a  puzzle  to 
all  our  people.  He  was  not  a  native  of  our 
county,  but  had  simply  appeared  one  day,  bought 
this  secluded  plot,  built  his  house  and  settled 
here.  Twice,  leaving  no  one  behind  him,  he  went 
away,  remained  a  week  and  then  as  quietly  re- 
turned to  resume  his  lonely  life.  On  each  occa- 
sion his  return  was  marked  by  a  fit  of  melancholy 
which  attracted  the  attention  but  repelled  the 
curiosity  of  his  nearest  neighbors.  That  he  had 
visited  his  old  home  in  a  distant  county  was  all 
they  could  ever  learn. 

"  Just  thirty  years  ago  this  coming  December, 
Varner  left  for  the  third  time.  A  week  passed, 
and  he  did  not  return.  Two  weeks  went  by,  and 


172  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

he  was  still  absent.  Strange  rumors  were  abroad 
as  to  the  cause  of  this  unaccountable  delay.  When 
the  third  week  had  reached  its  end  he  came  home, 
bringing  with  him  a  wizened  little  woman,  with 
a  hard  face  and  of  a  most  slovenly  appearance. 
This  person  he  introduced  laconically,  but  with  a 
very  evident  touch  of  pride,  as  his  wife. 

"  Just  who  the  woman  was  or  where  from  no 
one  knew  and  none  dared  ask,  but  the  news  of 
her  arrival  spread  quickly.  Here  was  an  oppor- 
tunity not  to  be  lost — to  bell  old  Joe  and  his 
mysterious  bride.  Never  before  had  the  valley 
made  such  preparations  for  a  serenade.  Full  fifty 
men  and  boys  met  at  my  father's  barn  on  the 
night  following  the  old  man's  home-coming,  and 
armed  with  old  guns,  fiddles,  sleigh  bells  and 
horns  we  set  out  for  the  scene  of  our  operations. 
It  was  a  good  two  mile  walk  to  the  house  on  the 
ridge,  and  we  reached  it  just  as  the  full  moon  was 
climbing  over  the  tree  tops  and  peeping  into  the 
clearing.  There  was  no  sign  of  life  anywhere  save 
a  few  dim  rays  of  light  that  shone  through  a 
crevice  in  the  shutters. 

"  Silently  we  stationed  ourselves  about  the 
cabin.  At  each  corner  we  placed  a  horse-fiddle, 
an  unmusical  instrument  made  by  drawing  the 
edge  of  a  board,  coated  with  resin,  over  the  corner 
of  a  large  box.  The  signal  was  given,  and  forth- 
with arose  the  greatest  din  that  had  ever  been 
heard  in  our  county.  The  banging  of  the  muskets, 


Joe  Varner's  Belling.  173 

the  bells,  the  horns,  with  the  melancholy  wail  of 
the  horse-fiddles  rising  above  them  all,  made  an 
indescribable  tumult.  But  the  result  was  not  as 
we  had  expected.  We  believed  that  Joe  and  his 
wife  would  come  to  the  door,  bow  their  acknowl- 
edgments and  invite  us  in  to  a  feast  of  cake  and 
cider,  as  is  the  custom.  Instead  the  light  died 
suddenly.  No  sound  was  heard  within. 

"  We  kept  to  our  work  bravely.  A  half  hour 
passed.  Cries  of  '  Bring  out  the  bride'  arose 
above  the  din,  giving  evidence  that  lusty  lungs 
were  coming  to  the  aid  of  wearied  limbs.  '  Bring 
her  out.  Fetch  out  Mrs.  Varner,  Joe  ! '  we  called 
again  and  again. 

"  It  was  of  no  avail.  An  hour  passed  and  not 
a  sign  of  life  had  come  from  the  interior  of  the 
cabin.  The  noise  began  to  weaken  in  volume,  the 
owners  of  the  guns  grew  chary  of  wasting  their 
powder,  and  at  last,  much  to  our  chagrin,  we  were 
compelled  to  retire  to  the  woods  for  a  consulta- 
tion. 

"A  thin  stream  of  smoke  pouring  from  the 
mouth  of  the  chimney  suggested  a  plan  resorted 
to  only  on  the  most  desperate  occasions — that 
of  smoking  out  the  newly  wedded  pair.  It  was 
the  work  of  but  a  few  minutes  to  obtain  a  board 
suitable  for  the  purpose  and  for  one  of  the  young 
men  to  climb  to  the  roof  with  it.  He  made  his 
way  noiselessly  to  the  peak,  laid  his  burden  across 
the  top  of  the  chimney,  then  crouched  low  to 


1 74  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

await  the  outcome.  The  smoke  ceased  to  escape. 
Another  half  hour  passed  and  still  no  sign  from 
the  house.  Anxious  looks  appeared  on  the  faces 
of  the  serenaders.  The  man  on  the  roof  removed 
the  cover  and  a  dense  volume  of  smoke  arose, 
showing  that  the  fire  had  done  well  the  work  we 
required.  From  beneath  the  doorway,  too,  a  few 
thin  wreaths  were  circling  vaguely  out. 

"  A  chill  of  dread  passed  over  us.  It  seemed 
that  something  out  of  the  ordinary  must  have 
happened  within.  At  first  we  were  inclined  to 
the  belief  that  the  fact  that  the  smoke  had  not 
driven  out  the  occupants  of  the  house  proved  that 
it  was  empty.  But  we  remembered  the  light  that 
we  had  seen  burning  on  our  approach.  It  augured 
evil. 

"  Four  stalwart  fellows,  holding  between  them 
a  large  log,  attacked  the  door.  One  blow — it 
cracked.  No  sound  inside.  Another  blow  and 
the  heavy  oak  fell  back  on  its  hinges.  The  smoke, 
released  from  its  prison,  poured  out  in  dense 
clouds,  driving  the  excited  bellers  from  the  door- 
way. One  man  dashed  through  it  and  across  the 
single  apartment,  which  passed  as  living-room  and 
kitchen,  and  in  another  instant  the  window  was 
up,  the  shutters  open  and  the  wind  was  whistling 
through,  driving  before  it  the  heavy  veil  that  had 
hidden  the  interior  from  our  view.  The  moon- 
light streamed  in. 

"  There,  sitting  in  a  great  wooden  rocking-chair, 


Joe  Varner's  Belling.  175 

his  feet  resting  almost  in  the  fire,  his  head  fallen 
low  upon  his  breast,  his  stern,  hard  features  calmly 
set  as  if  in  sleep,  sat  he  whom  we  had  come  to  bell 
— dead.  On  the  spotless  table  by  his  side  stood 
a  candlestick  from  which  the  candle  had  burned 
away,  only  a  bit  of  charred  taper  remaining  to  tell 
us  that  in  all  likelihood  Joe  had  died  before  we 
reached  his  home  and  that  the  last  spark  of  the 
unattended  light  had  fluttered  out,  just  as  we  began 
the  hideous  turmoil  outside.  Clutched  in  the  old 
man's  right  hand  was  the  explanation  of  his  lonely 
life  as  well  as  of  the  grewsome  ending  of  the  great 
belling." 

Theophilus  Winter  ceased  his  narration.  He 
drew  out  his  pocketbook  and  after  fumbling  a 
moment  in  its  recesses,  took  from  it  a  bit  of  paper. 
It  was  yellow  with  age  and  soiled,  and  the  writ- 
ing on  it  had  almost  faded  out,  but  I  could  read  : 
"  Deer  Joe — you  and  me  was  never  ment  for  one 
another,  i  knowed  that  40  years  ago  and  thats 
wi  i  run  way  with  si  tompson,  you  was  good  to 
take  me  back  them  too  other  times  i  left,  this  last 
time  i  thought  i  was  gettin  to  old  an  you  was  so 
fergivin  i  had  better  spend  my  las  days  with  you. 
i  cant  stand  the  quiet  country  livin  an  am  gone 
back  to  harrisburg.  they  aint  no  one  with  me. 
fergive  me.  i  gess  youll  be  better  off  without 
your  old  wife — sarah." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

The  Sentimental  Tramp. 

"ANYTHING  new  ben  happenin'  to  you  uns, 
Trampy  ?  "  asked  the  Chronic  Loafer.  "  We  ain't 
seen  ye  'bout  these  parts  sence  corn-plantin'  a 
year." 

"  Nothin'  unusu'l,"  replied  the  Tramp,  laying 
on  the  porch  his  stick  and  the  bandana  handker- 
chief that  contained  his  wardrobe.  He  seated 
himself  on  the  step.  "  Nothin'  unusu'l.  I  win- 
tered in  Philadelphy  an'  started  fer  these  parts  in 
May." 

"  Seems  like  you're  lookin'  mighty  glum,"  said 
the  Storekeeper.  He  had  ceased  his  whittling 
and  was  examining  every  detail  of  the  wanderer's 
dress  and  physiognomy.  "  Might  s'pose  ye  was  in 
love  agin." 

The  traveller  sighed. 

"  You  air  the  sentimentalist  tramp  I  ever  seen," 
the  Miller  cried.  "  Every  time  ye  comes  th'oo 
these  parts,  it's  a  new  un.  Does  ye  think  the 
weemen  is  so  almighty  blind  ez  to  git  struck  on  a 

hoodoo  like  you  ?  " 
176 


The  Sentimental  Tramp.  177 

"  I  keeps  me  passions  an'  me  shortcomin's  to 
meself,"  replied  the  wanderer  after  he  had  lighted 
his  corncob  pipe.  "  I've  had  a  heap  o'  hard  luck. 
I  wouldn't  min'  gittin'  in  love  or  in  jail  fer  mur- 
der sep'rate,  but  both  at  oncet  is  too  much  even 
fer  a  man  like  me." 

"  Hedgins ! "  the  Loafer  exclaimed,  edging 
toward  the  end  of  the  bench  furthest  from  the 
vagrant.  "  In  jail  fer  murder  !  " 

A  faint  smile  flitted  across  the  face  of  the 
Tramp.  Then  he  began  his  story : 

"  In  jail  fer  murder  an'  in  love  wit'  the  Sher'ff  s 
dotter — that's  exactly  what  happened  to  me. 
It's  onjust ;  it  ain't  right,  it  ain't,  even  fer  a  man 
o'  my  shortcomin's.  Let's  see.  This  is  hay  har- 
vest, ain't  it.  Well,  it  was  jest  about  corn-plantin* 
it  all  come  about.  I'd  been  workin'  me  way  easy 
up  along  the  Sussykehanner,  an'  one  night  put  up 
wit'  an  ole  feller  named  Noah  Punk,  who  lived  in 
a  lawg  house  at  the  foot  o'  the  big  mo'ntain  this 
side  o'  Pillersville.  They  was  no  one  there  but 
him  an'  his  woman.  She  was  a  bad-tempered 
creetur'  an'  made  things  hum  'round  that  ranch 
when  me  an'  the  ole  man  was  playin'  kyards  after 
supper.  They  put  me  to  bed  in  the  garret, 
an'  next  day  I  set  out  agin.  Punk  he  sayd  he'd 
walk  up  the  road  a  piece  wit'  me,  an*  he  did.  We 
parted  at  a  crossroads  two  mile  from  his  house. 
That  was  the  last  I  ever  seen  of  him.  I'd  never 
thot  no  more  of  him  nuther  ef  it  hedn't  been  that 

12 


178  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

two  days  later,  when  I  was  joggin'  easy  like  into 
Jimstontown,  I  was  'rested — 'rested,  mind  ye,  fer 
the  murder  o'  Noah  Punk.  I  never  knowd  jest 
what  it  was  all  'bout  tell  I  was  comf 'table  fixed 
in  the  kyounty  jail.  An'  then  I  didn't  keer,  fer 
I'd  met  the  Sher'ff's  dotter. 

"  Oh,  but  she  was  a  star  !  Jest  ez  plump  ez  ye 
make  'em,  wit'  a  dimple,  an'  yaller  shiny  hair,  an' 
jest  ez  red  ez  a  ripe  rambo  apple.  When  she 
brought  me  up  me  supper  the  fust  night,  I  ast  her 
what  I  was  up  fer,  an'  she  tol'  me. 

"  It  seems  like  no  one  ever  seen  Noah  Punk 
after  him  an'  me  left  the  house.  He  never  come 
back,  an'  when  they  hunted  fer  him  they  found 
nothin'  but  one  o'  his  ole  shoes,  all  covered  wit* 
blood,  be  the  canal  where  him  an'  me  parted. 
They  'rested  me  bekase  I  was  last  seen  wit'  him. 
Then  the  Sher'ff  wanted  to  hang  some  un. 

"  When  I  heard  that  I  was  kind  o'  tired,  an'  fer 
a  time  jest  held  me  head  down,  never  sayin' 
nothin'.  Then  I  looks  up  an'  seen  Em'ly  standin' 
there  so  sorrerful. 

"  '  How  long'll  it  be  tell  they  hangs  me  ? '  I  ast. 

"  '  They'll  try  you  next  month,'  she  sais.  '  Then 

I'd  'low  another  month  tell '  She  bust  plum 

inter  tears. 

"  '  Two  months,  Em'ly,'  sais  I,  I  sais,  '  an'  you 
feeds  the  prisoners.  They'll  be  the  bless'dest  two 
months  o'  me  life.' 

"  'Deed,  an'  that's  jest  how  I  felt.     Them  words 


The  Sentimental  Tramp.  179 

was  true  ef  I  ever  sayd  a  true  word.  The  bless- 
'dest  two  months  o'  my  life. 

"  But  them  days  did  fly  !  I  never  thot  no  more 
o'  Noah  Punk  or  o'  hangin'.  It  was  all  of 
Em'ly.  They  was  four  other  prisoners  in  the  jail, 
an'  I  never  played  no  kyards  wit'  them,  but  jest 
sot  a-thinkin'  o'  her.  She  use  ter  bring  us  our 
meals  three  times  a  day.  Quick  ez  I'd  finish 
eatin'  I'd  set  waitin*  fer  her  to  come  agin.  Jail 
was  a  happy  place  fer  me.  I  never  wanted  to 
leave  it. 

"You  uns  otter  'a'  seen  me  in  them  days.  I 
wasn't  sich  a  bum  ez  I  am  now.  The  Sher'ff  give 
me  a  shave  an'  a  new  suit.  Puttin'  all  in  all,  I 
was  a  pretty  slick  lookin'  individu'l — no  red  hair 
an*  whiskers  shootin'  out  in  all  directions,  makin' 
me  look  like  an  ile  lamp,  ez  I  hear  one  feller  put 
it.  Me  coat  didn't  hang  like  curtains,  an'  me 
pants  was  all  made  o'  the  same  piece  o'  goods.  I 
was  a  dude,  I  was,  in  spite  o'  me  present  short- 
comin's  in  that  respect.  Sometim's  I  think  mebbe 
Em'ly  thot  so  too,  fer  she  use  to  allus  give  me  a 
bigger  potaty  than  the  other  fellers.  They  guyed 
me  a  heap  about  it. 

"  A  month  went  by,  an'  I  was  gittin'  wus  an' 
wus,  when  they  tuk  me  out  an'  tried  me  fer  killin' 
Noah  Punk.  They  was  a  smart  little  chap  they 
called  the  'strict  'torney  what  done  all  the  work 
agin  me.  He  showed  the  jury  Punk's  bloody 
shoe  an'  my  clothes.  A  doctor  sayd  the  spots  on 


180  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

my  clothes  was  huming  blood.  They  was,  but  it 
was  mine,  an'  it  got  there  be  my  leanin'  agin  a 
nail.  Missus  Punk  told  how  I  slep'  at  the  house. 
Another  feller  sayd  how  he'd  seen  me  an'  Punk 
walkin'  along  the  canal.  I  'lowed  I  didn't  kill 
Punk  an'  that  jedgin'  from  what  I  seen  o'  Missus 
Punk,  he'd  'a'  thanked  me  ef  I  had.  Missus  Punk 
an'  the  'strict  'torney  got  riled  at  that,  an'  the 
jedge  come  down  so  hard  I  didn't  dast  say  an- 
other word.  Then  the  jury  found  I  was  guilty. 
an'  the  jedge  'lowed  they'd  hang  me  that  day  four 
weeks.  But  I  didn't  keer,  fer  it  was  one  month 
more  in  jail  to  be  fed  be  Em'ly. 

"  That  night  she  brought  me  a  bigger  potaty 
'an  ever.  When  I  seen  it  I  sais,  sais  I,  '  Em'ly, 
will  you  be  sorry  when  I'm  goin'  ? ' 

" '  'Deed  an'  I  will,  Tom,'  sais  she. 

"'Then  I'll  be  glad  to  go,'  sais  I.  An'  'bout 
half  that  potaty  went  down  inter  me  lungs,  I 
choked  so  bad." 

The  Chronic  Loafer  observed,  "  It  v  do  seem 
like  Em'ly  were  jest  a  leetle  gone,  Trampy." 

"  Mebbe  she  was.  I  don't  know.  But  that 
very  night  the  other  pris'ners  onloosed  all  the 
locks  wit'  a  penknife.  They  wanted  me  to  go. 
I  'lowed  I'd  stay.  I  never  let  on  what  was  wrong, 
but  sayd  I  was  an  innercent  man  an'  wouldn't 
run.  They  give  me  the  laugh,  an'  that  was  the 
last  I  ever  seen  of  'em. 

"  The  day  o'  the  hangin'  come.     I'd  ben  gittin' 


The  Sentimental  Tramp.  181 

wus  an'  wus  'bout  the  Sher'ff's  dotter.  I  didn't 
keer  much  'bout  goin',  but  I  hated  to  leave  the 
ole  jail.  I'd  a  heap  sight  ruther  'a'  gone,  tho', 
wit'  flyin'  colors  an'  hed  her  sorry  then  to  'a'  ben 
kicked  out  to  trampin'.  Em'ly  didn't  give  me 
breakfas'  that  mornin'.  Instead,  the  Sher'ff 
served  me  chicken  an'  eggs  an'  a  lot  of  other 
chings  they  only  gives  a  tramp  'fore  they  hangs 
'im.  He  togged  me  out  in  a  nice  fittin'  black  suit 
and  tuk  me  out  ter  go.  Mighty,  but  they  was  a 
crowd  to  see  me  off  !  The  jail-yard  was  filled 
with  prom'nent  citizens ;  the  housetops  an'  trees 
around  the  wall  was  jest  black  wit*  men  an'  boys. 
I  braced  right  up  an'  never  feazed  a  bit  when  I 
seen  the  rope.  The  Sher'ff  sayd  I  could  make  a 
speech,  so  I  gits  up  an'  sais,  easy  like, '  Me  frien's,' 
I  sais,  '  I  haven't  no  regrets  in  leavin'  this  'ere 
world,  fer  I  hain't  been  onduly  conf'table.  It's 

the  jail  I'll  miss,  an'  the  Sher'ff's  pretty  dotter. 

Ii  > 

ve 

"  Jest  then  the  Sher'ff  yelled,  '  Hold  on  ! ' 
"  I  turned  an'  seen  him  readin'  a  letter.  It  had 
come  from  Noah  Punk  out  in  Kansas.  He  sayd 
he  wrote  bekase  he  seen  be  the  papers  they  was 
hangin'  a  man  fer  killin'  him.  He  wanted  to  ex- 
plain that  he  was  still  livin'  an'  hed  only  run  away 
from  Mrs.  Punk.  The  blood  on  his  shoes  come 
from  his  steppin'  on  a  piece  of  glass.  He'd  tuk 
off  his  boots  an'  gone  west  on  a  freight. 

"When   the   crowd   hear   that   they  give  the 


1 82  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

Sher'ff  a  groan.  The  Sher'ff  he  got  mad,  an'  tuk 
all  me  new  duds,  give  me  me  ole  ones  an'  turned 
me  looset. 

"  I  was  a  common  ord'nary  tramp  an'  I  was 
clean  discouratched.  I  knowd  I'd  never  have 
Em'ly  feed  me  agin  'less  I  got  back  in  that  jail, 
so  I  set  right  down  on  the  steps.  The  Sher'ff 
jest  wouldn't  'rest  me  but  druv  me  off  wit'  a  club. 
I  busted  two  o'  his  winders  next  day.  Still  he 
wouldn't  'rest  me.  I  broke  three  more  winders 
an'  he  nabbed  me.  I  was  nigh  tickled  to  death 
wit'  me  luck.  But  then  I  hain't  no  luck.  That 
there  man  treated  me  jest  the  way  a  farmer  does 
a  cat  that  eats  chickens.  He  put  me  on  a  train, 
tuk  me  out  to  Altony  an'  turned  me  looset." 

The  Tramp  sighed  and  puffed  vigorously  on  his 
pipe. 

"  An'  now  what  air  ye  doin'  ?  "  asked  the  Store- 
keeper. 

"  What  else  'ud  a  man  do  ? "  replied  the  trav- 
eller. "  I'm  hustlin'  jest  ez  fast  ez  I  kin  to  git 
back  to  that  jail.  An'  I'm  goin'  ter  git  in  it. 
I'll  never  eat  another  potaty  onless  it  comes  from 
the  hand  o'  the  Sher'ff's  dotter." 

"  Does  you  know  what  I  wisht  ?  "  inquired  the 
Chronic  Loafer  earnestly. 

"What?" 

"  I  wisht  Noah  Punk  hedn't  wrote  that  letter." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Hiram  Gum,  the  Fiddler. 

THE  last  red  rays  of  the  evening  sun  disappeared 
below  the  mountains  and  the  gray  twilight  settled 
over  the  valley.  The  mill  ceased  its  rumbling. 
The  mower  that  all  day  long  had  been  clicking 
merrily  in  the  meadow  behind  the  store  stood 
silent  in  the  swaths,  and  the  horses  that  had  drawn 
it  were  playfully  dipping  their  noses  in  the  cool 
waters  of  the  creek.  The  birds — the  plover,  the 
lark  and  the  snipe  that  had  whistled  since  day- 
break over  the  fields  and  the  robins  and  sparrows 
that  had  chirped  overhead  in  the  trees — had  long 
since  made  themselves  comfortable  for  the  im- 
pending night.  By  and  by  the  woods  beyond 
the  flats  assumed  a  formless  blackness  and  from 
their  dark  midst  came  the  lonely  call  of  the  whip- 
poorwill.  The  horses  splashed  out  of  the  creek 
and  clattered  through  the  village  to  the  white 
barn  at  the  end  of  the  street.  The  Miller  pad- 
locked the  heavy  door  of  the  mill  and  bid  good 
night  to  his  helper,  who  trudged  away  over  the 
bridge  swinging  his  dinner  pail.  Then  he  beat 
183 


184  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

the  flour  out  of  his  cap  on  the  hitching-post  and 
lounged  up  to  the  store.  He  threw  himself  along 
the  floor,  and  after  propping  his  back  against  a 
pillar,  lighted  his  pipe. 

"  'Hen  it  comes  to  fiddlin',"  the  Chronic  Loafer 
was  saying,  "  they  is  few  men  can  beat  Sam  Wash- 
in'ton.  Why  I've  knowd  him  to  set  down  at  a 
party  at  seven  at  night  an'  fiddle  till  six  next 
mornin'  an'  play  a  different  tune  every  time." 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  o'  Hiram  Gum  ?  "  asked  the 
Patriarch. 

"  Hiram  Gum !  "  cried  the  G.  A.  R.  Man.  "  My 
father  used  often  to  speak  o'  him,  but  he  was 
afore  my  time.  Drowned  in  the  canal." 

"  Wonderful,  wonderful,  I've  heard  tell,"  ex- 
claimed the  Miller.  "  I  can  jest  remember  seein' 
him  oncet  'hen  I  was  a  wee  bit  o'  a  boy — a  leetle 
man  with  long  hair  an'  big  eyes  an'  a  withered 
arm." 

"Yes,  yes,"  the  old  man  murmured,  beating 
his  stick  upon  the  porch.  "  An'  a  wonderful 
fiddler  was  Hiram  Gum.  They  was  few  'round 
these  parts  could  han'le  a  bow  with  that  man." 

"  But  Sam  Washin'ton's  the  best  fiddler  they 
is,"  the  Loafer  interposed  emphatically. 

"  My  dear  man,  Hiram  Gum  was  more'n  an 
earthly  fiddler,"  the  Patriarch  retorted.  "  He  hed 
charms.  He  knowd  words." 

"  I  don't  b'lieve  in  them  charms  furder  then  they 
'feet  snakes  an'  bees." 


Hiram  Gum,  the  Fiddler.         185 

"  But  Hiram  Gum  was  more'n  an  ord'nary 
man,  an'  I  otter  know,  fer  I  remember  him  well. 
He  was  leetle,  ez  the  Miller  sayd,  an'  hed  long 
black  hair  an'  a  red  beard  that  waved  all  around 
his  neck,  an'  big  black  eyes,  an'  cheeks  that  shined 
like  they  was  scoured.  Then  his  left  arm  was  all 
withered  an'  wasn't  no  use  exceptin'  that  he  could 
crook  it  up  like  an'  work  the  long  fingers  on  the 
fiddle-strings.  No  one  knowd  how  old  Hiram 
was,  no  more'n  they  knowd  where  he  come  from 
'hen  he  settled  up  the  walley  sixty  years  ago,  fer 
he  never  sayd.  No  one  ever  dast  ask  him  'bout 
sech  things,  fer  he'd  jest  look  black  an'  say  naw- 
thin',  an'  give  you  sech  a  glance  with  them  big 
eyes  that  you  felt  all  creepy.  Aside  from  that  he 
was  allus  a  pleasant,  cheery  kind  of  a  man,  an' 
talked  entertainin',  fer  he'd  traveled  a  heap. 

"  Hiram  settled  in  a  little  lawg  house  that  stood 
on  South  Ridge  near  where  Silver's  peach  orchard 
is  now.  Peter  Billings's  farm  joined  his  lot,  an' 
it  wasn't  long  'fore  the  leetle  man  tuk  to  strollin' 
over  to  see  his  neighbors  of  an  evenin'.  By 
an'  by  he  seemed  to  take  a  considerable  shine 
fer  Peter's  dotter  Susan.  First  no  one  thot  naw- 
thin'  of  it,  fer  it  hairdly  seemed  likely  that  ez 
pretty  a  girl  ez  she  would  care  much  about  sech 
a  dried-up  leetle  speciment  ez  Hiram  Gum.  Be- 
sides, fer  a  long  time  she'd  ben  keepin'  company 
with  young  Jawhn  McCullagh,whose  father  owned 
'bout  the  best  piece  o'  farmin'  land  up  the  walley. 


1 86  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

He  was  a  big,  fine-lookin'  felly,  a  bit  o'  a  boaster, 
an'  with  a  likin'  fer  his  own  way. 

"  So  no  one  ever  dreamt  anything  'ud  come  o' 
Hiram  Gum  loafin'  over  at  Billings's.  But,  boys, 
'hen  you've  lived  ez  long  ez  I  hev,  an'  seen  ez 
much  o'  the  worl'  ez  I  hev,  you'll  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  they  is  a  heap  o'  truth  in  the  old 
sayin'  that  matches  is  made  in  Heaven.  But  it 
do  seem  sometim's  like  they  wasn't  much  time  or 
thot  spent  in  the  makin'.  Fust  thing  we  heard 
that  Hi  hed  ben  drove  off  the  Billings's  place  an' 
Susan  was  kep'  locked  in  her  room  fer  a  week. 
An'  sech  a  change  ez  come  over  that  man.  It 
was  airly  in  the  spring  'hen  it  happened.  He'd 
allus  met  a  man  with  a  hearty  '  howde '  before,  but 
after  that  he  never  spoke  'hen  he  passed.  From 
one  o'  the  pleasantest  o'  men  he  become  one  o' 
the  blackest.  From  comin'  to  store  every  day, 
he  got  to  comin'  only  'hen  he  needed  things. 
The  rest  o'  the  time  he  spent  mopin'  up  in  his 
placet  on  the  hill.  Susan  changed  too.  She 
lost  color  an'  got  solemn  like.  Many  a  time  I 
seen  her  leanin'  over  the  gate,  lookin'  away  up 
the  ridge  to  where  Hiram's  placet  lay. 

"  Then  come  the  Lander's  big  party.  It  was 
the  last  o'  the  season  fer  the  hot  weather  was 
near  'hen  they  wasn't  notimeferswingin'  corners, 
let  alone  the  overheatin'  that  'ud  come  by  it,  so 
everybody  in  the  walley  was  there.  Young  an' 
old  danced  that  night.  They  was  three  sets  in 


Hiram  Gum,  the  Fiddler.          187 

the  settin'-room  an'  two  in  the  kitchen  ;  they  was 
two  in  the  entry  an'  one  on  the  porch.  Save  fer 
layin'  off  at  ten  o'clock  fer  sweet-cake  an'  cider 
we  done  wery  leetle  restin'.  They  was  mighty 
few  wanted  to  rest  much  'hen  Hiram  Gum  played. 
He'd  no  sooner  tuk  his  placet  in  the  corner  then 
every  inch  o'  the  floor  was  covered  with  sets. 
Bow  yer  corners!  an'  we  was  off." 

The  old  man  beat  his  stick  on  the  porch  and 
waved  his  body  to  and  fro. 

"  My,  but  that  was  fiddlin' !  It  jest  went 
th'oo  a  man  like  one  o'  them  'lectric  shockin' 
machines.  Yer  feet  was  started  an'  away  ye 
went ;  ole  Hiram  settin'  there  with  his  withered 
arm  crooked  up  to  hold  the  fiddle,  the  long, 
crooked  fingers  flyin'  over  the  strings,  the  bow 
goin'  so  fast  ye  could  hairdly  see  it,  his  big  black 
eyes  lookin'  down  inter  the  instermen',  his  long 
hair  an'  beard  wavin'  ez  he  swung  to  an'  fro. 
Now  yer  own  !  Oh,  them  was  dancin'  days  'hen 
Hi  Gum  played  ! 

"  They  never  was  a  more  inweterate  hat-passer 
then  Hiram,  fer  be  his  playin'  he  made  his  livin', 
an'  never  a  note  'ud  he  make  tell  they  was  fifty 
cents  in  his  ole  white  beaver.  Then  he'd  play 
that  out  an'  'round  he'd  come  agin.  That  night 
he  didn't  ast  a  cent,  but  jest  sat  there  glum  an' 
never  oncet  stopped  the  music. 

"  Susan  was  a  wonderful  dancer — jest  ez  quick 
ez  a  flash,  untirin',  an'  so  light  on  her  feet  that  ye 


1 88  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

felt  like  ye  was  holtin'  to  a  fairy  'hen  ye  swung 
corners  with  her.  She  was  on  the  floor  continual'. 
I  done  one  set  with  her  an'  noticed  how  she  could 
scarce  keep  her  eyes  offen  Hi.  She  only  danced 
one  set  with  McCullagh  an'  lay  kind  o'  limp  like 
in  swingin'  corners  an'  didn't  say  nawthin',  so 
'hen  they  finished  he  left  the  house.  I  seen  him 
go  out  o'  the  door  with  a  black  look  in  his 
face. 

"  Most  all  hed  gone  'hen  I  left  Lander's  airly  in 
the  mornin'.  We  lived  over  the  river,  an'  ez  they 
wasn't  no  bridge  we  use  to  cross  in  a  couple  o' 
ole  boats  that  was  kep'  tied  along  the  bank  jest 
below  the  canal  lock.  I  went  down  over  the  flat 
an'  th'oo  the  woods  tell  I  come  to  the  canal, 
where  I  crossed  the  lock  an'  walked  along  the 
towpath,  whistlin'  all  the  time  fer  company.  It 
was  a  clear  night.  The  moon  was  shinin'  bright 
th'oo  the  trees.  The  canal  was  on  one  side  o'  me, 
an'  th'oo  the  open  places  in  the  bushes  on  the 
other  I  could  see  the  river  gleamin'  along.  I  got 
to  the  bend  jest  a  couple  of  hundred  yards  above 
where  the  boats  lay  an'  was  jest  steppin'  out  inter 
the  clearin'  there  'hen  sudden  I  heard  a  loud  voice. 
I  stopped.  Then  it  come  louder,  an'  I  recognized 
Jawhn  McCullagh's  rough  talk.  I  went  cautious 
tell  I  was  out  o'  the  woods.  There,  jest  ahead,  I 
seen  him,  near  the  path,  facin'  ole  Hiram  Gum, 
who,  with  his  fiddle  under  his  arm,  was  standin' 
with  his  back  to  the  canal,  lookin'  quiet  at  the 


Hiram  Gum,  the  Fiddler.         189 

big  felly.  I  dropped  to  the  ground  an'  watched, 
scarce  breathin'  I  was  so  excited. 

"  Jawhn  raised  a  heavy  stick,  an'  shook  it,  an' 
stepped  slow-like  toward  the  leetle  fiddler,  crowd- 
in'  him  nearer  the  bank. 

"  '  Hiram  Gum  !  '  he  sayd,  '  I've  hed  'nough  o' 
you.  Git  out  o'  this  country  an*  never  come  back, 
or  you'll  never  fiddle  agin  ! ' 

"  Hiram  lowered  his  fiddle  an'  answered,  '  You 
can't  skeer  me,  Jawhn  McCullagh,  fer  Susan 
doesn't  keer  fer  you  ! ' 

"  '  You  sha'n't  run  off  with  her ! '  the  other 
yelled,  shakin'  his  stick. 

"  I  could  see  his  face  workin'  ez  he  swung  his  club 
up  an'  down  an'  step  be  step  kep'  edgin'  the  leetle 
felly  nearer  the  wotter.  I  jest  lay  tremblin',  I  was 
that  frightened,  fer  I  was  but  a  lad  in  them  days. 
I  knowd  I  otter  run  out  an'  stop  it,  but  'fore  I 
got  me  couritch  up  I  hear  the  soft  notes  o'  the 
fiddle.  There  was  ole  Hiram  with  his  withered 
hand  holdin'  the  instermen',  his  long  fingers  flyin' 
over  the  strings,  the  bow  slidin'  slow  like  up  an' 
down. 

" '  Swing  yer  corners,  Jawhn ! '  he  cried,  fixin' 
them  black  eyes  on  the  big  feller. 

"  Then  the  notes  come  quick  an'  short. 
Jawhn's  stick  dropped,  an'  his  arm  fell  limp  like. 
He  passed  one  hand  confused  over  his  forehead. 
He  bowed.  The  notes  come  faster.  In  another 
minute  he  was  swingin"  corners  with  his  arms  grasp- 


190  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

in'  the  air.  The  dead  sticks  cracked  under  his  feet 
ez  he  flung  around.  An'  ez  ole  Hi  called  the  riggers 
he  followed  him,  yellin'  'em  louder  an'  kickin'  like 
mad.  It  was  the  wildest  dancin'  ever  I  seen.  He 
bowed  an'  twisted,  back'ard  an'  for'a'd,  an'  chas- 
sayed  an'  chained,  his  feet  movin'  faster  an'  faster 
ez  the  notes  come  quicker  an*  quicker  an'  the  bow 
slid  to  an'  fro  like  lightnin'.  Ole  Hiram  kep' 
movin'  'round  cautious  like,  never  takin'  his  eyes 
off  the  dancer  tell  he  was  on  the  river  side 
an'  Jawhn  skippin'  'round  on  the  beaten  tow- 
path. 

"  Them  was  awful  minutes  fer  me.  I  could  do 
nawthin',  fer  the  playin'  kind  o'  spelled  me.  'Hen 
I  seen  the  fiddler  begin  to  move  toward  the 
canal  an'  the  mad  dancin'  felly  backin'  nearer 
an'  nearer  the  bank,  I  tried  to  git  up  but  I 
kicked  out  with  both  feet  an'  fell  sprawlin'  on  the 
groun'. 

"  *  Back  to  your  corner,  Jawhn  ! '  the  ole  man 
called. 

"  '  Corners  next ! '  yelled  the  dancer,  kickin'  up 
his  heels  an'  th'owin'  out  his  arms  like  he  was 
grabbin'  somethin'.  Then  come  an  awful  cry. 
They  was  a  splash.  He'd  gone  over  the  bank. 

"  I  jumped  out,  fer  the  music  hed  stopped,  an' 
started  toward  the  spot.  But  'fore  I  got  there 
Hiram  hed  th'owed  away  his  fiddle  an'  run  to  the 
canal,  an*  was  down  on  his  knees  starin'  inter 
the  wotter.  A  head  come  above  the  surface. 


Hiram  Gum,  the  Fiddler.         191 

Then  an  arm  reached  wildly  out.  The  ole  man 
bent  over  an'  grasped  the  hand.  But  it  wasn't  no 
uset,  fer  he'd  nawthin'  to  support  himself  with. 
He  took  holt  o'  the  bank  with  his  withered  ringers, 
but  the  arm  give  'way  an'  he  toppled  over.  Fer 
a  minute  all  was  still.  I  leaned  over  the  wotter 
an'  waited.  They  was  a  ripple  toward  the  middle, 
an'  two  heads  come  up.  I  seen  Hiram  Gum's 
long  black  hair  an'  beard  an'  his  drawn  face  ez  he 
looked  at  the  sky  overhead.  Then  they  disap- 
peared agin.  The  surface  of  the  canal  become 
quiet  an'  still  like  nawthin'  hed  ben  happenin'. 
Then  I  turned  an'  run. 

"  I  flew  along  the  tow-path,  acrosst  the  clearin', 
inter  the  woods  agin,  an'  down  toward  the  river 
where  the  boats  lay  hid  among  the  wilier  bushes. 
An'  ez  I  went  crashin'  th'oo  the  branches  I  hear 
a  girl's  voice  callin'. 

"  '  Hiram,'  she  sais,  '  why  was  you  fiddlin'  ?  I 
thot  you  was  never  cominV 

"Another  second  an'  I  was  th'oo  thewillers  an' 
on  the  bank.  There,  settin'  in  a  boat,  her  hands 
on  the  oars  ready  to  pull  away,  was  Susan  Bil- 
lings." 

The  Patriarch  beat  his  cane  softly  on  the  floor 
and  hummed  a  snatch  of  a  tune. 

There  came  a  short,  quick  puffing  as  the  Loafer 
drew  on  his  pipe,  until  the  bright  coals  shone  in 
the  darkness. 

"  But  Sam  Washin'ton " 


192  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

The  old  man  arose  slowly. 

"  I  don't  keer  'bout  Sam  Washin'ton.  I  must 
be  goin'  home.  I'll  git  the  rhuem'tism  on  sech  a 
night  sure,  fer  I've  no  horse-chestnut  in  me 
pocket." 


CHAPTER  XVIH. 

The  "  Good 


AN  air  of  gloom  pervaded  the  store.  Outside 
the  rain  came  pattering  down.  It  ran  in  torrents 
off  the  porch  roof  and  across  the  entrance  made 
a  formidable  moat,  which  had  been  temporarily 
bridged  by  an  empty  soap-box.  It  gathered  on 
the  limbs  of  the  leafless  trees  and  poured  in  steady 
streams  upon  the  backs  of  the  three  forlorn  horses, 
that,  shivering  under  water-logged  blankets,  stood 
patiently,  with  hanging  heads,  at  the  hitching  rail. 
Within  everything  was  dry,  to  be  sure,  but  the 
firewood,  which  was  damp  and  would  not  burn, 
so  the  big  egg  stove  sent  forth  no  cheerful  rays  of 
heat  and  light.  Out  from  its  heart  came  the 
sound  of  sizzle  and  splutter  as  some  isolated  flame 
attacked  a  piece  of  wet  hickory.  It  seemed  to 
have  conveyed  its  ill-humor  to  the  little  group 
around  it. 

The  Tinsmith  arose  from  the  nail  keg  upon 
which  he  had  been  seated,  walked  disconsolately 
to  the  door  and  gazed  through  the  begrimed  glass 
*3  193 


194  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

at  the  dreary  village  street.  He  stood  there  a 
moment,  and  then  lounged  back  to  the  stove. 

As  he  rubbed  his  hands  on  the  pipe  in  vain  ef- 
fort to  absorb  a  little  heat,  he  grumbled,  "  This 
here  rain's  upset  all  my  calkerlations.  I  was  goin' 
to  bile  to-morrow,  but  you  uns  doesn't  catch  me 
makin'  cider  sech  a  day  ez  this.  My  weemen  sayd 
they'd  hev  the  schnitz  done  up  to-day  an'  we 
could  start  the  kittles  airly  in  the  mornin*.  Now 
all  this  time  is  loss." 

"  Seems  like  ye're  bilin'  kind  o'  late,"  said  the 
Storekeeper,  resting  both  elbows  on  the  counter 
and  clasping  his  chin  in  his  hands.  "  Luther  Jim- 
son  was  tellin'  me  the  other  day  how  all  the  folks 
up  the  walley  hes  made." 

The  storm  had  kept  the  Patriarch  at  home,  so 
the  Chronic  Loafer  had  the  old  man's  chair.  He 
leaned  back  on  two  legs  of  it ;  then  twisted  his 
long  body  to  one  side  so  his  head  rested  comfort- 
ably against  his  favorite  pile  of  calicoes. 

"  Speakin'  o'  apple  butter,"  he  said,  "  reminds 
me  of  a  good  un  I  hed  on  my  Missus  last  week." 

"  It  allser  remin's  me,"  interposed  the  Tinsmith, 
"  that  I  met  Abe  Scissors  up  to  preachin'  a  Sun- 
day, an'  he  was  wond'rin'  when  you  was  goin'  to 
return  his  copper  kittle." 

"  Abe  Scissors  needn't  git  worrit  'bout  his  kittle. 
I've  a  good  un  on  him  ez  well  ez  on  the  Missus. 
His  copper  kittle — 

The  Farmer,  who  had  almost  been  hidden  by 


The  "Good  Un."  195 

the  stove,  at  this  juncture  leaned  forward  in  his 
chair  and  interrupted,  "  But  Abe  Scissors  hain't 
got  no  kittle.  That  there " 

"  Let  him  tell  his  good  one,"  cried  the  School 
Teacher.  "  He's  been  tryin'  it  every  night  this 
week.  Let  us  get  done  with  it." 

The  Farmer  grunted  discontentedly  but  threw 
himself  back  in  silence.  With  marked  attention, 
however,  he  followed  the  Loafer's  narration. 

"  The  Missus  made  up  her  mind  she'd  bile  apple- 
butter  this  year,  bespite  all  my  objections,  an'  two 
weeks  ago  this  comin'  Saturday  she  done  it.  They 
ain't  no  trees  on  our  lot,  so  I  got  Jawhn  Long- 
necker  to  give  me  six  burshel  o'  Pippins  an'  York 
Imper'als  mixed,  on  condition  I  helped  with  his 
thrashin'  next  month.  I  give  Hiram  Thompson 
that  there  red  shote  I'd  ben  fattenin'  fer  a  bawrel 
o'  cider.  She'd  cal'lated  to  put  up  'bout  fourteen 
gallon  o'  butter.  I  sayd  it  was  all  foolershness, 
fer  I  could  buy  it  a  heap  sight  cheaper  an'  was 
gittin'  tired  o'  Pennsylwany  salve  any  way.  Fer 
all  year  round,  zulicks  is  'bout  the  best  thing  to  go 
with  bread." 

"  Mentionin'  zulicks,"  interrupted  the  Store- 
keeper, "  remin's  me  that  yesterday  I  got  in  a 
bawrel  o'  the  very  finest.  It's  none  o'  yer  common 
cookin'  m'lasses  but  was  made  special  fer  table 
use." 

"  I'll  bring  a  tin  down  an'  hev  it  filled,"  con- 
tinued the  Loafer,  "  fer  there's  nawthin'  better'n 


196  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

plain  bread  an'  zulicks.  But  the  Missus  don't  see 
things  my  way  allus,  an'  they  was  nawthin'  but 
fer  me  to  borry  the  Storekeeper's  horse  an'  wagon 
an'  drive  over  to  Abe  Scissors's  an'  git  the  loan  o' 
his  copper  kittle  an'  stirrer." 

"  But  Abe  Scissors  hain't  got  no  copper  kittle," 
cried  the  Farmer  vehemently. 

"  He  sayd  it  was  his  copper  kittle  an*  I  didn't 
ast  no  questions,"  the  Loafer  replied.  "  My  pap 
allus  used  to  say  that  'bout  one  half  the  dissypint- 
ments  an'  onhappinesses  in  this  worl'  was  due  to 
questionin',  an'  I  'low  he  was  right.  So  I  didn't 
catechize  Abe  Scissors.  He  'lowed  I  could  hev 
the  kittle  jest  ez  long  ez  I  didn't  burn  it,  fer  he 
claimed  he'd  give  twenty-five  dollar  fer  it  at  a  sale 
last  spring.  Hevin'  made  satisfactory  'rangements 
fer  the  apples,  the  cider,  the  kittle  an'  the  stirrer, 
they  was  nawthin'  left  to  do  but  bile.  Two  weeks 
ago  tomorrer  we  done  it. 

"The  Missus  inwited  several  o'  her  weemen 
frien's  in  the  day  before  to  help  schnitz,  an'  I  tell 
you  uns,  what  with  talkin'  'bout  how  many  pared 
apples  was  needed  with  so  much  cider  biled  down 
to  so  much,  an'  how  much  sugar  an*  cinn'mon 
otter  be  used  fer  so  many  crocks  o'  butter,  them 
folks  hed  a  great  time.  'Hen  they  finished  they 
was  a  washtub  full  o'  the  finest  schnitzed  apples 
ye  ever  seen." 

"  Borryed  my  washtub-still,"  exclaimed  the 
Tinsmith. 


The  "Good  Un."  197 

"  A  gentleman  is  knowd  be  the  way  he  lends, 
my  pap  use  to  say,"  drawled  the  Loafer,  gazing 
absently  at  the  ceiling. 

"  Well,  ef  your  father  was  anything  like  his  son 
he  knowd  the  truth  o'  that  sayin',"  snapped  the 
Tinsmith. 

"  He  use  to  argy,"  continued  the  Loafer,  ignor- 
ing this  remark,  "  that  them  ez  hesn't  the  mawral 
courage  to  refuse  to  lend  'hen  they  don't  want  to, 
is  allus  weak  enough  to  bemoan  their  good  deeds 
in  public.  But  it  ain't  no  use  discussin'  them 
pints.  I  got  everything  I  needed,  an'  on  the 
next  mornin'  the  Missus  was  up  airly  an'  at  six 
o'clock  hed  the  fire  goin'  in  the  back  yard,  with  the 
kittle  rigged  over  it  an'  hed  begin  to  bile  down 
that  bawrel  o'  cider. 

"  Bilin'  down  ain't  bad  fer  they  hain't  nawthin' 
to  do.  It's  'hen  ye  begins  puttin'  in  the  schnitz 
an'  hes  to  stir  ketches  ye.  I  didn't  'low  I'd  stir. 
Missus,  'hen  the  cider  was  allbiled  down  to  a  kittle 
full,  sayd  I  hev  ter,  but  I  claimed  I'd  worked 
enough  gittin'  the  things.  Besides  I'd  a  'point- 
ment  to  see  Sam  Shores,  the  stage-driver,  'hen  he 
come  th'oo  here  that  afternoon.  The  Missus  an 
her  weemen  frien's  grumbled,  but  begin  dumpin' 
the  schnitz  in  with  the  bilin'  cider  an'  to  do  their 
own  stirrin'.  I  come  over  here  an*  was  waitin'  fer 
the  stage.  After  an'  hour  I  concided  I'd  run  over 
to  the  house  an'  git  a  drink  o'  cider.  I  went  in 
the  back  way,  an'  there  I  seen  Ike  Lauterbach's 


1 98  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

wife  a-standin'  stirrin'.  The  rest  o'  the  weemen 
was  in  the  kitchen. 

"  'Hen  Mrs.  Lauterbach  seen  me  she  sais  pleas- 
ant like,  '  I'm  so  glad  you've  come.  Your  wife 
an'  the  rest  o'  the  ladies  hes  made  a  batch  o' 
cookies.  Now  you  jest  stir  here  a  minute  an'  I'll 
go  git  some  fer  ye.' 

"  I  was  kind  o'  afraid  to  take  holt  on  that  there 
stirrer,  so  sayd  I'd  git  'em  meself.  But  she  'sisted 
she'd  be  right  out,  an'  foolish  I  tuk  the  han'le.  I 
regret  it  the  minute  I  done  it.  I  stirred  an' 
stirred,  an'  Mrs.  Lauterbach  didn't  come.  Then 
I  hear  the  weemen  in  the  house  laughin'  like 
they'd  die. 

"The  Missus  she  puts  her  head  out  an'  sais, 
'  Jest  you  keep  on  stirrin'.  Don't  you  dast  stop 
fer  the  butter'll  stick  to  the  kittle  an'  burn  it  ef 
ye  does.' 

"  Down  went  the  windy.  I  was  jest  that  hop- 
pin'  mad  I'd  a  notion  to  quit  right  there  an'  leave 
the  ole  thing  burn,  but  then  I  was  afraid  Abe 
Scissors  might  kerry  on  ef  I  did.  So  I  stirred, 
an'  stirred,  an'  stirred.  I  tell  ye  I  don't  know 
any  work  ez  mean  ez  that.  Stop  movin'  the  stick 
an'  the  kittle  burns.  Ef  any  o'  you  uns  ever  done 
it  you'll  know  it  ain't  no  man's  work." 

"The  weemen  allus  does  it  with  us,"  said  the 
Miller  in  a  superior  tone. 

"  I  cal'lated  they  was  to  do  it  with  us,  but  I 
mistook,"  the  Loafer  continued.  "  I  stirred,  an' 


The  "  Good  Un."  199 

stirred,  an'  stirred.  The  fire  got  hotter  an'  hotter 
an'  hotter,  an'  ez  it  got  warmer  the  han'le  o'  the 
stirrer  seemed  to  git  shorter,  an'  me  face  begin  to 
blister.  I  kep'  at  it  fer  an  hour  an'  a  half,  tell 
me  legs  was  near  givin'  way  under  me,  me  fingers 
was  stiff  an'  achin',  me  arms  felt  like  they'd  drop 
off  from  pushin'  an'  twistin'  that  long  stick.  The 
apples  was  all  dissolved  but  the  butter  was  thin 
yit,  an'  I  knowd  it  meant  th'ee  hours  afore  we 
could  take  the  kittle  offen  the  fire. 

"  Then  I  yelled  fer  help.  One  o'  the  weemen 
come  out.  I  was  that  mad  I  most  swore,  but  she 
jest  laughed  an'  poked  some  more  wood  on  the 
fire  an'  sayd  ef  I  didn't  push  the  stick  livelier  the 
kittle'd  burn.  The  fire  blazed  up  hotter  an'  hot- 
ter, an'  it  seemed  like  me  clothes  'ud  begin  to 
smoke  at  any  minute.  Me  arms  an'  legs  was 
achin'  more'n  more.  Me  back  was  'most  broke 
from  me  tryin'  to  lean  'way  from  the  heat.  Me 
neck  was  'most  twisted  off  be  me  'temptin'  to  keep 
the  blaze  from  blindin'  me.  It  come  four  o'clock 
an*  I  yelled  fer  help  agin. 

"  The  Missus  stuck  her  head  outen  the  windy 
an*  called,  '  Don't  you  let  that  kittle  burn  ! ' 

"  I  was  desp'rate,  but  I  kep'  stirrin'  an'  stirrin'. 
It  come  sundown  an'  begin  to  git  darker  an'  darker, 
an'  the  butter  got  thicker  an'  thicker,  but  I  knowd 
be  the  feel  that  they  was  a  couple  o'  hours  yit.  I 
begin  to  think  o'  lettin'  the  ole  thing  drop  an* 
Abe  Scissors'  kittle  burn,  fer  I  held  he  didn't  hev 


2oo  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

no  business  to  lend  it  to  me  'hen  he  knowd  well 
enough  it  'ud  spoil  ef  I  ever  quit  stirrin'.  Oncet 
I  was  fer  lettin'  go  an'  slippin'  over  here  to  the 
store,  fer  I  heard  several  o'  the  fellys  drive  up  an' 
hitch  an'  the  door  bang  shet.  But  'hen  I  tried  to 
drop  the  stick  I  jest  couldn't.  Me  fingers  seemed 
to  think  it  wasn't  right  an'  held  to  the  pole,  an' 
me  arms  kep'  on  pushin'  an*  pushin'  tho'  every 
motion  give  me  an  ache.  I  jest  didn't  dast,  so 
kep'  stirrin'  an'  stirrin'  an*  stirrin',  an'  thinkin*  an' 
thinkin'  an'  thinkin',  an'  wond'rin'  who  was  over 
here  an'  what  was  doin'.  An'  ez  I  kep'  pushin' 
an'  pushin',  an'  thinkin'  an'  thinkin',  I  clean  forgot 
meself  an'  all  about  the  apple-butter. 

"  I  come  to  with  a  jump  fer  some  un  hed  me  be 
the  beard.  'Hen  I  looked  up  I  seen  the  Missus 
an'  her  weemen  frien's  standin'  'round  me  ges- 
tickelatin'.  The  Missus  was  wavin'  what  was  left 
o'  the  stirrer.  It  was  jest  'bout  half  ez  long  ez 
'hen  I  begin  with  it,  fer  the  cross  piece  that  runs 
down  into  the  butter  an'  'bout  half  the  han'le 
was  burned  off.  Seems  I'd  got  the  ole  thing 
clean  outen  the  kittle  an'  hed  ben  stirrin'  it 
'round  the  fire." 

"  Reflex  action,"  suggested  the  Teacher. 

"  The  butter  was  fairly  smokin'.  An'  the  kittle ! 
Well,  say,  ef  that  there  wasn't  jest  ez  black  on  the 
inside  ez  ef  it  was  iron  'stead  o'  copper.  An'  the 
weemen  !  Mebbe  it  was  reflect  actin'  they  done, 
ez  the  teacher  sais,  but  whatever  it  was  it  skeered 


The  "Good  Un."  201 

me  considerable.  But  final  I  seen  how  funny  it 
was,  how  the  joke  was  on  the  Missus  who'd  loss 
all  her  apple-butter,  'stead  o'  on  me,  an'  how  I'd 
got  square  with  Abe  Scissors  fer  lendin'  me  his 
copper  kittle  'hen  he  knowd  it  'ud  burn  ef  I  ever 
stopped  stirrin'.  An'  I  jest  laughed." 

The  Loafer  straightened  up  in  his  chair  and 
began  to  rock  violently  to  and  fro  and  to  chuckle. 

The  Farmer  arose  and  walked  around  the  stove. 

"  What  fer  a  kittle  was  that  ?  "  he  asked  in  a 
low,  pleasant  tone.  "  Was  they  a  big  S  stamped 
on  the  inside  next  the  rim  ?  " 

"That's  the  one  exact.  He!  he!"  cried  the 
Loafer,  with  great  hilarity.  "  S  fer  Scissors 
an' " 

"  S  stands  fer  Silver  too,"  yelled  the  Farmer. 
"  My  name's  Silver.  I  lent  that  kittle  to  Abe 
Scissors  four  weeks  ago." 

The  Loafer  gathered  himself  together  and 
arose  from  the  muddy  pool  at  the  foot  of  the 
store  steps.  He  gazed  ruefully  for  a  moment  at 
the  closed  door,  and  seemed  undecided  whether 
or  not  to  return  to  the  place  from  which  he  had 
been  so  unceremoniously  ejected.  Then  the 
sound  of  much  laughing  came  to  his  ears,  and  he 
exclaimed,  "  Well,  ef  that  ain't  a  good  un  !  " 

And  he  ambled  off  home  to  the  Missus. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Breaking  the  Ice. 

WHEN  William  Larker  irrevocably  made  up 
his  mind  to  take  Mary  Kuchenbach  to  the  great 
county  picnic  at  Blue  Bottle  Springs  he  did  not 
tell  his  fath&r,  as  was  his  custom  in  most  matters. 
To  a  straight-laced  Dunkard  like  Herman  Larker, 
the  very  thought  of  attendance  on  such  a  carousal, 
with  its  round  dancing  and  square  dancing,  would 
have  seemed  impiety.  Henry  Kuchenbach  was 
likewise  a  member  of  that  strict  sect,  but  he  was 
not  quite  so  narrow  in  his  ideas  as  his  more  pious 
neighbor.  Yet  to  him,  also,  the  suggestion  of 
his  daughter  being  a  participant  in  such  frivolity 
would  have  met  with  scant  approval. 

But  William  was  longing  to  dance.  For  many 
years  he  had  fondly  cherished  the  belief  that  he 
was  possessed  of  much  inborn  ability  in  that  art 
— a  genius  compelled  to  remain  dormant,  by  the 
narrowness  of  his  family's  views.  Many  a  rainy 
afternoon  had  he  given  vent  to  his  desire  by 
swinging  corners  and  deux-et-deux-ing  about  his 

father's  barn-floor,  with  no  other  partner  than  a 
202 


Breaking  the  Ice.  203 

sheaf  of  wheat  and  no  other  music  than  that  pro- 
duced by  his  own  capacious  lips. 

So  one  beautiful  July  day,  when,  attired  in  his 
best,  he  stepped  into  his  buggy,  tapped  his  sleek 
mare  with  the  whip  and  started  at  a  brisk  pace 
toward  the  Kuchenbach  farm,  his  stern  father 
believed  that  he  was  going  to  the  great  bush- 
meeting,  twelve  miles  up  the  turnpike  and  was 
devoutly  thankful  to  see  his  son  growing  in  piety. 
William's  best  was  a  black  frock  coat,  with  short 
tails,  trousers  of  the  same  material  reaching  just 
below  his  shoe-tops,  a  huge  derby,  once  black  but 
now  green  from  long  exposure  to  the  elements, 
and  a  new  pair  of  shoes  well  tallowed.  As  he 
drove  up  to  the  gate  of  the  neighboring  farm 
Mary  was  waiting  for  him,  looking  very  buxom 
and  rosy  and  neat  in  her  plain  black  dress,  the 
sombreness  of  which  was  relieved  by  a  white  ker- 
chief at  the  neck  and  the  gray  poke  bonnet  of 
her  sect.  As  she  took  the  vacant  place  beside 
him  in  the  buggy  and  the  vehicle  rattled  away, 
Henry  Kuchenbach  called  after  them,  "  Don't 
fergit  to  bring  back  some  o'  the  good  things  the 
brethren  sais."  And  good  Mrs.  Kuchenbach 
threw  up  her  hands  and  exclaimed,  "  Ain't  them 
a  lovely  pair?" 

"  Yais,"  said  her  husband  grimly,  "  an'  fer  six 
year  they've  ben  keepin*  comp'ny  an*  he  ain't  yit 
spoke  his  mind." 

The  buggy  sped  along  the  road,  the  rattle  of 


204  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

its  wheels,  the  clatter  of  the  mare's  hoofs  and 
the  shrill  calls  of  the  killdeer  skimming  over  the 
meadows,  being  the  sole  sounds  to  break  the 
silence  of  the  country. 

A  mile  was  gone  over.  Then  the  girl  said  fal- 
teringly,  "  Beel,  a'n't  it  wrong?" 

In  response  William  gave  his  horse  a  vicious 
cut  with  the  whip  and  replied,  "  It  don't  seem  jest 
right  to  fool  'em,  but  you'll  fergit  all  about  it 
'hen  we  git  dancin'." 

There  was  silence  between  them — a  silence 
broken  only  at  rare  intervals  when  one  or  the 
other  ventured  some  commonplace  remark  which 
would  be  rewarded  with  a  laconic  "  Yais  "  or  "  Ye 
don't  say." 

Up  hill  and  down  rattled  the  buggy,  following 
the  crooked  road  across  the  valley,  over  three  low 
wooded  ridges,  then  up  the  broad  meadows  that 
border  the  river,  until  at  length  the  grove  in  which 
lies  Blue  Bottle  Spring  was  reached.  The  festivi- 
ties had  already  begun.  The  outskirts  of  the 
wood  were  filled  with  vehicles  of  every  descrip- 
tion— buggies,  buckboards,  spring-wagons,  omni- 
buses and  ancient  phaetons.  The  horses  had 
been  unhitched  and  tied  to  trees  and  fences,  and 
were  munching  at  their  midday  meal,  gnawing 
the  bark  from  the  limbs,  snatching  at  the  leaves 
or  kicking  at  the  flies  while  their  masters  gave 
themselves  up  to  the  pursuit  of  pleasure.  Hav- 
ing seen  his  mare  comfortably  settled  at  a  small 


Breaking  the  Ice.  205 

chestnut,  William  Larker  took  his  lunch  basket 
on  one  arm  and  his  companion  on  the  other  and 
proceeded  eagerly  to  the  inner  part  of  the  grove, 
whence  came  the  sounds  of  the  fiddle  and  cornet. 
They  passed  through  the  outer  circle  of  elderly 
women,  who  were  unpacking  baskets  and  taste- 
fully arranging  their  contents  on  table-cloths 
spread  on  the  ground — jars  of  pickles,  cans  of 
fruit,  bags  of  sandwiches,  bottles  of  cold  tea, 
layer  cakes  of  wondrous  size  and  construction, 
and  the  scores  of  other  dainties  necessary  to  pass 
a  pleasant  day  with  nature.  They  went  through 
a  second  circle  of  venders  of  peanuts,  lemonade 
and  ice-cream,  about  whose  stands  were  gathered 
many  elderly  men  discussing  the  topics  of  the 
day  and  exchanging  greetings. 

The  young  Dunkards  had  now  arrived  at  the 
center  of  interest,  the  platform,  and  joined  the 
crowd  that  was  eagerly  watching  the  course  of 
the  dance.  An  orchestra  of  three  pieces,  a  bass- 
viol,  a  violin  and  a  cornet,  operated  by  three  men 
in  shirt  sleeves,  sent  forth  wheezy  strains  to  the 
time  of  which  men  and  women,  young  and  old, 
gaily  swung  corners  and  partners,  galloped  for- 
ward and  back,  made  ladies'  chains,  winding  in 
and  out,  then  back  and  bowing,  until  William 
Larker  and  his  companion  fairly  grew  dizzy. 

The  crowd  of  dancers  was  a  heterogeneous  one. 
There  were  young  men  from  the  neighboring 
county  town,  gorgeous  in  blazers  of  variegated 


206  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

colors,  and  young  farmers  whose  movements  were 
not  the  less  agile  for  the  reason  that  they  wore 
heavy  sombre  clothing  and  high-crowned,  broad- 
brimmed  felt  hats.  There  were  three  particularly 
forward  youths  in  bicycle  attire,  and  three  gay 
young  men  from  a  not  far  distant  city,  whose 
shining  silk  hats  and  dancing  pumps  made  them 
centers  of  admiration  and  envy.  The  women, 
likewise,  went  to  both  extremes.  Gaily  flowered, 
airy  calico,  cashmere  and  gingham  bobbed  about 
among  glistening,  frigid  satins  and  silks. 

"  Oh,  ain't  it  grand  ?  "  cried  Mary  Kuchenbach, 
clasping  her  hands. 

"  That's  good  dancin',  I  tell  ye,"  replied  her 
companion  with  enthusiasm. 

She  had  seated  herself  on  a  stump,  and  he  was 
leaning  against  a  tree  at  her  side,  both  with  eyes 
fixed  on  the  platform. 

Now  in  seemingly  inextricable  chaos ;  now  in 
perfectly  orderly  form,  six  sets  bowing  and  scrap- 
ing ;  now  winding  into  a  dazzling  mass  of  silk, 
calico,  high  hats,  felt  hats,  flower-covered  bon- 
nets and  blazers,  then  out  again  went  the  dancers. 

4<  Good  dancin',  I  should-  say !  "  William  ex- 
claimed. "  Jest  look  at  them  th'ee  ceety  fellys, 
with  them  shiny  hats,  a-swingin'  corners.  Now, 
a'n't  they  cuttin'  it  ?  Next  comes  '  a-la-man-all.' 
Watch  'em — them  two  in  the  fur  set — the  way 
they  th'ow  their  feet — the  gal  in  pink  with  the 
felly  in  short  pants  an'  a  stripped  coat.  Now 


Breaking  the  Ice.  207 

back !  Thet  there  is  dancin',  I  tell  ye,  Mary ! 
'  Gents  dozy-dough  '  next.  Thet  'ere  felly  don't 
call  figgers  loud  "nough.  There  they  goes — bad 
in  the  rear  set — thet's  better.  See  them  ceety 
fellys  agin,  swingin'  partners.  Grand  chain ! 
Good  all  'round — no — there's  a  break.  See  thet 
girl  in  blue  sating — she  turned  too  soon.  Thet's 
better.  T'other  way — bow  yer  corners — now  yer 
own.  What !  so  soon  ?  Why,  they  otter  kep'  it 
up." 

The  music  had  stopped.  The  dancers,  panting 
from  their  exertions,  mopping  and  fanning,  left 
the  platform  and  scattered  among  the  audience. 

William  Larker's  eyes  were  aglow.  His  com- 
panion, seated  upon  the  stump,  gazed  curiously, 
timidly,  at  the  gay  crowd  about  her,  while  he 
stood  frigidly  beside  her  mentally  picturing  the 
pleasure  to  come.  He  was  to  dance  to  real  music 
with  a  flesh-and-blood  partner  after  all  those  years 
of  secret  practise  with  a  wheat  sheaf  in  the  seclu- 
sion of  his  father's  barn.  He  was  to  put  his  arms 
around  Mary  Kuchenbach.  His  feet  could  hardly 
keep  still  when  a  purely  imaginary  air  floated 
through  his  brain  and  he  fancied  himself  "  dozy- 
doughing  "  and  "  goin'-a-visitin'  "  with  the  rosy 
girl  at  his  side. 

The  man  with  the  bass-viol  was  rubbing  resin 
on  his  bow,  the  violinist  was  tuning  up  and  the 
cornetist  giving  the  stops  of  his  instrument  the 
usual  preliminary  exercise  when  the  floor-master 


2o8  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

announced  the  next  dance.  One  after  another 
the  couples  sifted  from  the  crowd  and  clambered 
on  to  the  platform. 

"  Two  more  pair,"  cried  the  conductor. 

"  Come  'long,  Mary.  Now's  our  chancet," 
whispered  the  young  Dunkard  to  his  companion. 

"  Oh,  Beel,  really  I  can't.  I  never  danced  in 
puberlick  afore." 

"  But  you  kin.  It  ain't  hard.  All  ye'll  hev  to 
do  is  to  keep  yer  feet  a-movin'  an'  mind  the  felly 
thet's  callin*  riggers." 

The  girl  hesitated. 

"  One  more  couple,"  roared  the  floor-master. 

William  was  getting  excited. 

"  You  can  dance  with  the  best  of  'em.  Come 
'long." 

"  Really  now,  Beel,  jest  a  minute." 

The  twang  of  the  fiddle  commenced  and  the 
cracked,  quavering  notes  of  the  horn  arose  above 
the  buzz  of  conversation. 

"  Bow  yer  corners — now  yer  own,"  cried  the 
leader. 

And  the  young  man  sat  down  on  the  stump  in 
disgust. 

"  We'll  hev  to  git  in  the  next,"  he  said.  "  Why, 
it's  eesy.  You  see  this  here's  only  a  plain 
quadreel.  Ye  otter  see  one  thet  ain't  plain — one 
o'  them  where  they  hes  sech  figgers  ez  '  first  lady 
on  the  war-dance,'  like  they  done  at  the  big  wed- 
din'  up  in  Raccoon  Walley  th'ee  year  ago.  These 


Breaking  the  Ice.  209 

is  plain.  I  never  danced  'em  afore  meself,  but 
I've  seen  'em  do  it  an'  I've  ben  practisin'.  All 
ye'll  hev  to  do  is  to  mind  me." 

So  the  following  dance  found  them  on  the  plat- 
form among  the  first.  The  girl  was  trembling, 
blushing  and  self-conscious  ;  the  young  man  self- 
conscious  but  triumphant  and  composed. 

"  Bow  yer  partners,"  cried  the  floor-master  when 
the  orchestra  had  started  its  scraping. 

Down  went  the  gray  poke  bonnet.  Down 
went  the  great  derby,  and  a  smile  of  joy  over- 
spread the  broad  face  beneath  it. 

"  Swing  yer  partners !  " 

The  great  arms  went  around  the  plump  form, 
lifting  it  from  its  feet ;  their  owner  spun  about, 
carefully  replaced  his  burden  on  the  floor,  bowed, 
smiled  and  whispered,  "  Ain't  it  grand  ?  " 

"  Corners  !  " 

The  young  woman  in  blue  satin  gave  a  slight 
scream  that  was  metamorphosed  into  a  giggle,  as 
she  felt  herself  swung  through  space  in  the  arms  of 
the  muscular  person  toward  whom  she  had  ca- 
reened. Her  partner,  one  of  the  city  men  with 
silk  hats,  grinned  and  whispered  in  her  ear, 
"  Oatcake." 

"  Leads  for'a'd  an'  back !  " 

William  Larker  seized  his  partner's  plump  hand 

and  bounded  forward,  bowing  and  twisting,  his  free 

arm  gesticulating  in  unison  with  his  legs  and  feet. 

He  was  in  the  thick  of  the  dance  now  ;  in  it  with  his 

14 


210  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

whole  heart.  Whenever  there  was  any  "dozy- 
doughing  "  to  be  done,  William  did  it.  If  a  couple 
went  "  visitin',"  he  was  with  them.  When  "  ladies 
in  the  center  "  was  called,  he  was  there.  In  every 
grand  chain  he  turned  the  wrong  way.  He 
gripped  the  women's  hands  until  they  groaned  in- 
wardly. He  tramped  on  and  crushed  the  patent 
leather  pumps  of  a  young  city  man,  and  in  re- 
sponse to  a  muttered  something  smiled  his  un- 
concern, bolted  back  to  his  corner,  swung  his 
partner  and  murmured,  "  Ain't  it  grand  ?  "  The 
young  women  giggled  and  winked  at  their  ac- 
quaintances in  the  next  set ;  the  forward  youth 
in  a  bicycle  suit  talked  about  roadsweepers,  and 
the  city  man  said  again,  "  Oatcake." 

But  the  young  Dunkard  was  unconscious  of  it 
all  to  the  end — the  end  that  came  most  suddenly 
and  broke  up  the  dancing. 

"  Swing  yer  partners  !  "  bawled  the  floor-master. 

William  Larker  obeyed.  A  ragged  bit  of  the 
sole  of  his  shoe  caught  in  a  crack  and  over  he 
went,  off  the  high  platform,  with  his  partner 
clasped  tight  in  his  arms. 

When  he  recovered  his  senses  he  found  himself 
lying  by  the  spring,  the  center  of  all  eyes.  His 
first  glance  fell  upon  Mary,  who  was  seated  at  his 
side,  weeping  heartily,  despite  the  efforts  of  a  large 
crowd  of  sympathizing  women  to  allay  her  fears. 

Next  his  eyes  met  those  of  the  young  woman 
in  blue  satin,  and  he  saw  her  laugh  and  turn  and 


Breaking  the  Ice.  211 

speak  to  the  crowd.  He  thought  that  he  noticed 
a  silk  hat  and  heard  the  word  "  Oatcake."  And 
then  and  there  he  resolved  to  return  to  and  never 
again  depart  from  the  quiet  ways  of  his  fathers. 

William  and  Mary  drove  back  in  the  early 
evening.  They  had  crossed  the  last  ridge  and 
were  looking  out  over  the  broad  valley  toward  the 
dark  mountain  at  whose  foot  lay  their  homes, 
when  the  first  word  was  spoken. 

"  Beel,"  said  the  girl  with  a  sidelong  glance, 
"  ain't  dancin'  dangerous  ?  " 

The  young  man  cut  the  mare  with  the  whip 
and  flushed. 

"  Yais,  kind  o',"  he  replied.  "  But  I'm  sorry  I 
drug  you  off  o'  the  platform  like  thet." 

She  covered  her  mouth  with  her  hand.  William 
just  saw  the  corner  of  one  of  her  eyes  as  she 
looked  up  at  him  from  under  the  gray  bonnet. 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  min'  thet,"  she  said.  "  It  was 
jes*  lovely  tell  we  hit." 

The  mare  swerved  to  one  side,  toward  the  fence. 
The  driver  seized  the  rein  he  had  dropped  and 
pulled  her  back  into  the  beaten  track.  Then  the 
whip  fell  from  his  hands,  and  he  stopped  and 
clambered  down  into  the  road  and  recovered  it. 
But  when  he  regained  his  place  in  the  buggy  he 
wrapped  his  reins  twice  around  the  whip,  and  the 
intelligent  beast  trotted  home  unguided. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Two  Stay-at-Homes. 

"  IF  wantin'  to  was  doin'  an'  they  weren't  no 
weemen,  I'd  'a'  ben  in  Sandyago  long  ago," 
said  the  G.  A.  R.  Man.  He  rolled  a  nail-keg  close 
to  the  stove,  seated  himself  upon  it,  dipped  a 
handful  of  crushed  tobacco  leaves  from  his  coat 
pocket  into  his  pipe  and  lighted  the  odorous  weed 
with  a  sulphur  match.  Then  he  wagged  his  beard 
at  the  assembled  company  and  repeated,  "Yes, 
sir,  I'd  ben  in  Sandyago  long  ago." 

"  Weemen  ain't  much  on  fightin'  away  from 
home,"  observed  the  Chronic  Loafer,  biting  a 
cubic  inch  out  of  a  plug  of  Agriculturist's  Charm 
which  he  had  borrowed  from  the  man  who  was  sit- 
ting next  him  on  the  counter.  The  charm  had 
passed  half  way  around  the  circle  and  the  remaining 
cubic  inch  of  it  had  been  restored  to  its  owner, 
when  the  veteran,  not  catching  the  full  intent  of 
the  remark,  replied :  "  Yas.  They's  a  heap  o' 
truth  in  that  there.  Weemen  is  sot  agin  furrin 

wars.     Leastways  my  weemen  is.     Now " 

212 


Two  Stay-at- Homes.  213 

"  Do  they  prefer  the  domestic  kind  ?  "  asked  the 
School  Teacher. 

"  Not  at  all — not  at  all,"  said  the  old  soldier. 
"  Ye  see,  my  missus  passed  th'oo  sech  terrible 
times  back  in  '60,  'hen  I  was  bangin'  away  at  the 
rebels  down  in  the  Wilterness,  that  'hen  this  here 
Spaynish  war  broke  out  she  sais  to  me,  sais  she, 
'  Ye  jest  sha'n't  go/ 

"  '  Marthy,'  sais  I,  '  I'm  a  weteran.  The  Gov- 
ernor o'  Pennsylwany  hes  call  fer  ten  thousand 
men,  an'  he  don't  name  me,  but  he  means  me  jest 
the  same.  Be  every  moral  an'  jest  right,  I  bein'  a 
weteran  am  included  in  that  ten  thousand.' 

"  With  that  I  puts  on  me  blues,  an'  gits  down 
me  musket,  an'  kisses  the  little  ones  all  'round,  an' 
starts  fer  the  door.  Well,  sir,  you  uns  never  seen 
sech  a  time  ez  was  raised  'hen  they  see  I  was  off 
to  fight  the  Spaynyards.  Mary  Alice,  the  eldest, 
jest  th'owed  her  arms  'round  my  neck  an'  bust  out 
with  tears.  The  seven  others  begin  to  cry,  '  Pap, 
Pap,  you'll  git  snooted.' 

"  '  Children,'  I  sais,  sais  I,  '  your  pap's  a  weteran 
an'  a  experienced  soldier.  Duty  calls  an'  he 
obeys.' 

"  The  missus  didn't  see  things  that  way.  She 
jest  gits  me  be  the  collar  an'  sets  me  down  in  an 
armchair,  draws  me  boots,  walks  off  with  them  an' 
me  musket  an'  hides  'em.  She  weren't  goin'  to 
hev  no  foolin'  'round  the  shanty,  she  sayd. 

"  Marthy  seemed  to  think  that  that  there  set- 


214  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

tied  it,  but  she  didn't  know  me,  fer  all  the  evenin', 
ez  I  set  there  be  the  fire  so  meek-like,  I  was 
a-thinkin'.  Scenes  wasn't  to  my  likin',  so  I  con- 
cided  I'd  jest  let  on  like  I  hed  give  up  all  idee 
o'  fightin'  Spaynyards,  wait  tell  the  family  was 
asleep  an'  then  vanish. 

"  At  midnight  I  sets  up  in  bed.  The  moon  was 
shinin'  th'oothe  winder,  jest  half-lightin'  the  room, 
so  I  could  move  'round  without  trippin'  over  the 
f  urnitur'.  The  missus  was  a-snorin'  gentle  like,  an' 
overhead  in  the  attic  I  could  hear  a  soft  snifflin' 
jest  ez  a  thrasher  engine  goes  'hen  the  men  has 
shet  down  fer  dinner.  It  was  the  childern  asleep. 
I  climbs  out  over  the  footboard  an'  looks  'round 
fer  me  boots.  There  they  was,  stickin*  out  under 
the  missus's  pillow.  Knowin'  I  couldn't  git  'em 
without  wakin'  her,  I  concided  to  vanish  bare- 
foot. But  they  was  one  thing  agin  this,  an*  that 
was  that  the  door  was  locked  an*  some  un  hed 
took  the  key.  I  tried  the  winder,  but  that  hed  ben 
nailed  shet.  Then  I  gits  mad — that  there  kind  o' 
quiet-like  mad  'hen  ye  boils  up  inside  an'  hes  to 
keep  yer  mouth  shet.  It's  the  meanest  kind  o' 
mad,  too.  It  seemed  like  they  wasasmileplayin' 
'round  the  missus's  face,  an'  that  made  me  sourer 
than  ever,  an'  kind  o'  spurred  me  on. 

"  Well,  sirs,  ez  I  stood  there  in  the  middle  o' 
the  room  thinkin*  what  I'd  do  next  an'  wonderin* 
whether  I  hedn't  better  jest  slip  back  to  bed,  me 
eye  ketched  sight  o'  an  ole  comf 'table  that  filled 


Two  Stay-at- Homes.  215 

a  hole  in  the  wall  where  the  daubin'  hed  fell  out 
from  atween  the  lawgs.  That  put  me  in  mind  o'  a 
scheme  that  I  wasn't  long  in  kerryin'  out,  fer  the 
hole  was  pretty  good  sized  an'  I'm  a  small  man 
an'  wiry.  In  less'n  no  time  the  comf  'table  was 
outen  that  hole  an'  I  was  in  it.  I  stayed  in  it, 
too,  fer  jest  ez  me  head  an'  arms  an'  shoulders  got 
out  o'  doors  I  felt  a  sharp  prickin'  in  me  side.  I 
pushed  back  an'  a  great  big  splinter  jagged  me. 
I  tried  to  go  on  for'a'd,  an'  it  jagged  me  agin  so 
bad  I  'most  yelled.  So  I  stayed  right  there — 
one-half  outen  the  house  an'  the  other  half  een. 
Seemed  like  time  begin  to  move  awful  slow  then, 
an'  it  'peared  a  whole  day  'fore  the  moon  went 
from  the  top  o'  the  old  lone  pine  tree  into  Gran- 
daddy's  chestnut,  which  is  jest  twenty  feet.  Then 
me  feet  an'  legs  was  bakin'  over  the  stove,  an' 
the  cold  Apryl  winds  was  a-whistlin'  down  me 
neck. 

"  I  took  to  countin'  jest  to  pass  time,  an*  I  'low 
I  must  'a'  counted  fifteen  million  afore  I  heard 
footsteps  up  the  road.  A  man  come  outen  the 
woods  an'  inter  the  moonlit  clearin',  where  I  could 
see  he  was  ole  Hen  Bingle.  I  whistled.  He 
stopped  an'  looked.  I  whistled  agin  an'  called 
soft  like  to  him.  He  sneaked  up  to  the  gate  an' 
looked  agin. 

"  '  Hen,  help,'  I  whispers. 

"  '  Who  in  the  heck  is  you  a-growin'  outen  the 
side  o'  that  shanty  ? '  he  calls,  kind  o'  hoarse  an' 


216  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

scared.  With  that  he  pints  a  musket  at  me  wery 
threatenin'. 

"  '  Hen  Bingle  ! '  sais  I.  *  Don't  you  dast 
shoot.  '  It's  me  an'  I  want  you  to  pull  me  out. 
I'm  goin'  to  war.' 

"  Then  it  dawned  on  him  what  was  up,  an'  he 
come  over  an'  looks  at  me.  I  seen  he  hed  on  his 
blues,  too,  an'  I  knowd  ez  he  hed  give  his  woman 
the  sneak  an'  was  off  to  fight  Spaynyards.  He 
wanted  to  laugh,  but  I  told  him  it  were  no  time 
fer  sech  foolin',  but  jest  to  break  off  that  splinter 
an'  pull  me  loose. 

"  Now,  Hen's  an  obligin',  patriotic  kind  o'  a 
feller,  an'  tho',  ez  he  sayd,  he  hedn't  much  time 
to  waste,  ez  his  woman  was  likely  to  wake  up  any 
minute  an'  find  him  gone,  he  reached  up  an'  broke 
off  the  splinter.  But  I  fit  the  hole  so  tight  I 
couldn't  budge,  an'  he  sayd  he'd  pull  me  out.  So 
he  gits  up  on  the  wall  o'  the  well  which  was  jest 
below  me,  an'  grabs  me  be  both  hands  an'  drawed. 
I'd  moved  about  an  inch,  'hen  he  kicked  out  wild 
like  an'  hung  to  me  like  a  ton  o'  hay,  an'  gasped 
an'  groaned.  I  thought  that  yank  hed  disj'inted 
me  all  over,  an'  yells,  '  Let  go  ! ' 

"  '  Don't  you  dast  let  go  ! '  he  sayd,  lookin'  up 
at  me  kind  o'  agonizm'. 

"  Then  I  see  that  neither  me  nor  Hen  Bingle 
was  ever  goin'  to  fight  Spaynyards,  fer  he'd 
stepped  off  the  wall  an'  was  hangin'  down  inter 
the  well. 


Two  Stay-at- Homes.  217 

"Splinters!  Why,  I'd  'a'  ruther  bed  a  splinter 
stickin'  in  every  inch  o'  my  body  then  ole  Hen 
Bingle's  two  hundred  pound  a-drawin'  me  from 
my  nat'ral  height  o'  five  feet  six  inter  a  man  o' 
six  feet  five.  That's  what  it  seemed  like.  He 
ast  how  deep  me  well  was,  an'  'hen  I  answered 
forty  foot  with  fifteen  foot  o'  wotter  at  the  bot- 
tom, he  sayd  he'd  never  speak  to  me  agin  if  I  let 
go  my  holt  on  him.  I  sayd  I  guesst  he  wouldn't, 
an'  he  let  out  a  whoop  that  brought  the  missus 
an'  the  little  ones  a-tumblin'  outen  the  house. 

"  Marthy  stared  at  us  a  minute.  Then  shesais, 
'  Where  was  you  a-goin'  ?  ' 

"  '  To  fight  Spaynyards,'  sais  I,  sheepish  like. 

" '  An'  you,  Hen  Bingle  ? '  she  asts. 

"  '  Same,'  gasps  Hen. 

"  '  Does  your  wife  know  you're  out?'  sais  the 
missus,  stern  ez  a  jedge. 

" '  No,'  sais  Hen. 

" '  Then  I've  a  mind  to  go  over  to  your  placet 
an'  git  her,'  sais  Marthy. 

" '  It's  two  miled,'  Hen  groaned,  '  an'  I'll  be 
drownded  agin  you  git  back.  Lemme  up  now 
an'  I'll  go  home  an'  stay  there.' 

"  Marthy  turns  around  quiet  like,  walks  inter 
the  house  an'  comes  out  with  the  family  Bible. 

"  '  Hen  Bingle,'  she  sais  solemn-like,  holdin'  the 
book  to  his  mouth,  '  does  you  promise  to  tell  the 
whole  truth  an'  nothin'  but  the  truth,  an'  not  to 
go  to  war  ?  ' 


218  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

"  Hen  didn't  waste  no  time  in  kissin'  that  book 
so  loud  I  could  hear  an  echo  of  it  over  along  the 
ridge.  I  kissed  it  pretty  loud  meself,  to  be  sure. 
The  missus  lifted  Hen  outen  the  well  an'  he  snuck 
off  home.  His  woman  never  knowd  nawthin' 
about  the  trouble  tell  she  met  my  missus  two 
weeks  later,  at  protracted  meetin'  over  to  Pine 
Swamp  church.  Ez  fer  me,  but  fer  that  splinter 
I'd  be  in  Sandyago  now." 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

Eben  Huckirfs  Conversion. 

EBEN  HUCKIN'S  father  had  been  a  United 
Presbyterian  and  his  mother  a  Methodist.  Eben 
belonged  to  neither  church,  a  fact  which  he 
ascribed  to  his  having  been  drawn  toward  both 
denominations  by  forces  so  exactly  equal  that  he 
had  never  become  affiliated  with  either.  Yet  he 
prided  himself  on  being  a  man  of  profound  re- 
ligious convictions.  How  could  it  be  otherwise 
with  one  whose  forefathers  had  for  generations 
sung  psalms  and  slept  through  two-hour  sermons 
on  the  hard,  uncomfortable  benches  of  the  bluest 
of  blue-stocking  Presbyterianism  or  prostrated 
themselves  at  the  mourners'  bench  on  every  op- 
portunity ?  The  austerity  of  these  ancestors  af- 
forded him  a  reason  for  habitually  absenting  him- 
self from  Sunday  services  in  either  of  the  two 
temples  where  his  parents  had  so  long  and  faith- 
fully worshiped.  The  church-folk  in  the  valley 
were  getting  entirely  too  liberal.  He  was  a  con- 
servative. 

219 


220  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

"  'Hen  the  United  Presbyter'ans  hes  to  hev  an 
organ  to  sing  by  an'  the  Methydists  gits  to  hevin' 
necktie  parties  an'  dancin',  it's  time  for  a  blue- 
stockin'  like  me  to  set  at  home  o'  Sundays  an' 
dewote  himself  to  readin'  Lamentations,"  he  was 
wont  to  explain  to  his  cronies  at  the  store. 

Holding  as  he  did  such  puritanical  ideas,  it  is 
not  to  be  wondered  that  he  viewed  with  bitter 
hostility  the  coming  of  an  Episcopal  clergyman 
to  West  Salem.  He  had  offered  no  objection 
when  Samuel  Marsden,  who  owned  nearly  all  the 
land  surrounding  the  village,  married  a  woman 
from  the  city,  but  when  that  young  autocrat  turned 
the  United  Presbyterians  out  of  the  building 
where  they  had  worshiped  for  a  century  and  had 
an  Episcopal  minister  come  from  down  the  river 
to  hold  weekly  services  there,  the  blood  of  all  the 
Huckins  boiled  and  Eben  felt  called  upon  to 
protest. 

At  first  these  protests  took  the  form  of  long 
discourses,  delivered  on  the  store  porch  and  touch- 
ing on  the  evil  of  introducing  "  ceety  notions  an' 
new-fandangled  idees  "  into  the  spiritual  life  of  the 
community.  They  continued  in  this  strain  until 
one  fine  April  day  when  the  sun  was  shining  with 
sufficient  warmth  to  allow  Eben  and  his  cronies 
to  move  from  the  darkness  within  the  store  to 
the  old  hacked  bench  without,  where  they  could 
bask  in  the  cheering  rays. 

The  green  shoots  on  the   tall    maple    by  the 


Eben  Huckin's  Conversion.        221 

hitching  rail,  the  shouts  of  the  boys  fishing  in  the 
creek  below  the  rumbling  mill,  the  faint  "  gee 
haw  "  of  the  man  who  was  plowing  in  the  meadow 
across  the  stream,  the  contented  clucking  of  a  trio 
of  mother  hens,  wandering  up  and  down  the  vil- 
lage street  with  a  score  of  piping  children  in  their 
wake — these  and  a  hundred  other  things  told  that 
spring  was  at  hand.  After  their  long  winter  of 
imprisonment  the  shoemaker,  the  squire  and  the 
blacksmith  would  have  been  contented,  to  enjoy 
themselves  in  silence,  but  Eben  was  in  one  of  his 
talkative  moods.  That  very  morning  his  niece 
had  announced  her  intention  of  forsaking  the 
church  in  which  her  fathers  had  worshiped,  and 
becoming  an  Episcopalian.  His  cup  of  woe  was 
overflowing.  He  had  been  able  to  view  with 
complacence  such  defections  in  other  families. 
They  had  afforded  him  splendid  illustrations  with 
which  to  enliven  his  discourses  on  the  weakness 
of  the  generality  of  mankind.  He  had  set  the 
Huckins  above  the  generality.  It  had  seemed  to 
him  impossible  that  one  could  err  who  boasted 
the  blood  of  men  who  had  gone  to  church  with 
the  Bible  in  one  hand  and  a  gun  in  the  other. 
He  had  always  laid  particular  stress  on  that  point. 
He  was  a  firm  believer  in  heredity  and  had  long 
contended  that  the  descendants  of  those  who  first 
settled  the  valley  were  blessed  with  strong  char- 
acters. Yet  one  of  the  blood  had  become  an 
Episcopalian !  And  he  had  met  the  rector ! 


222  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

"  The  first  I  knowd  of  it  was  this  mornin'  at 
breakfast,"  said  Eben,  adjusting  his  steel-rimmed 
spectacles  that  he  might  look  over  their  tops  so 
sternly  as  to  check  any  hilarity  on  the  part  of  his 
auditors.  "  Mary  sais  to  me,  '  Uncle,  I  wish  you'd 
spruce  up  a  leetle  this  afternoon  ez  the  rector's 
cominY 

" '  Mary,'  sais  I,  thinkin'  I'd  cod  her  jest  a 
leetle,  '  a  miller  runs  a  mill,  a  tinner  works  in  tin, 
a  farmer  farms,  but  what  in  the  name  of  common 
sense  does  a  rector  do  ? ' 

"  '  I  mean  the  preacher,'  she  answers. 

"  '  Mary,'  I  sais,  '  ef  the  parson  heard  you  a  call- 
in'  him  sech  new-fandangled  names,  he'd  hev  you 
up  before  the  session.' 

"  She  was  quiet  a  piece,  for  she  seen  I  was  in  a 
wery  sewere  turn  o'  mind.  I  didn't  pay  no  more 
attention  tell  I  was  jest  about  gittin'  up  from  the 
table  'hen  she  spoke  up  agin. 

" '  Uncle,'  she  sais,  '  I  hope  you  won't  mind,  but 
that's  what  we  Piscopaleens  calls  preachers — rec- 
tors. Mr.  Dawson  is  a  rector.' 

"  Well,  sirs,  I  was  so  took  back,  I  jest  set  down 
an*  gasped.  I  thot  I  was  goin'  to  hev  a  stroke. 
Here  was  one  o'  my  blood,  my  own  brother's 
dotter,  raised  on  the  milk  o'  Presbyter'anism,  fer- 
gittin*  the  precepts  o'  her  youth,  strayin*  out  o* 
the  straight  an'  narrow  way  an'  takin'  up  with  the 
new-fandangled  idees  o'  the  Piscopaleens.  An' 
why  ?  Because  she  liked  the  singin' !  'Hen  I 


Eben  Huckin's  Conversion.        223 

heard  that  I  rose  in  my  wrath  an'  started  down 
here  to  cool  off.  On  reachin'  the  apple  tree  be 
the  bend  in  the  road,  I  set  down  on  the  grassy 
bank  to  rest  a  leetle  an'  look  'round.  Pretty  soon 
I  see  a  man  comin'  over  the  medder,  an'  ez  he  got 
close  I  knowd  be  the  cut  o'  his  coat  an'  the  flat- 
ness o'  his  black  slouch  that  it  was  the  preacher 
hisself.  'Hen  he  reached  the  creek  he  give  a 
run  an'  jump  an'  went  flyin'  over  it  in  the  most 
ondignifiedest  way  I  ever  seen.  '  It  seems  like 
he  thinks  he's  an  angel  a'ready  an'  is  spreadin'  his 
wings,'  I  sais  to  meself.  Then  he  puts  both  hands 
on  the  top  o'  the  six-rail  fence  an'  waults  over  it 
like  a  circus  performer,  landin'  almost  at  me  feet. 

"  '  Hello,'  he  sais. 

"  '  Hello,'  sais  I,  never  liftin'  me  eyes  offen  the 
wheat  field  acrosst  the  road. 

"  '  Fine  day,'  sais  he. 

"  '  I  was  jest  tryin'  to  make  up  me  mind  whether 
it  was  or  not,'  sais  I. 

"  I  thot  that  'ud  settle  him,  but  I  mistook  me 
man.  He  were  the  thickest  headedest,  forwardest 
felly  I  ever  laid  eyes  on.  He  jest  laughed.  Now 
I  admits  that  'hen  he  laughed  he  'peared  a  tol'able 
pleasant  enough  sort  o'  a  leetle  person,  but  I 
wasn't  in  no  frame  o'  mind  fer  jollyin'. 

"  '  I  was  jest  on  me  way  up  to  your  placet  to 
see  ye,'  he  sais. 

"  '  Was  ye  ? '  I  answers.  '  Well — I  heard  ye  was 
comin'.  I'm  jest  on  me  way  to  store.' 


224  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

"  It  almost  seemed  I  could  see  that  gentle  hint 
comin'  outen  his  one  ear  after  it  hed  gone  in 
the  other. 

"  '  So  ye  waited  here  fer  me/  sais  he.  '  How 
nice  of  ye !  We'll  jest  stroll  down  to  the  wil- 
lage  together.' 

" '  Well,'  sais  I,  '  I've  changed  me  mind.  I'm 
goin'  to  stay  where  I  am.' 

"  '  Ye  couldn't  a  picked  a  nicer  placet,'  he 
sais. 

"  An'  with  that  he  set  right  down  be  me  side. 
Mad  ?  Why,  I  was  jest  bubblin'.  An'  I  hed  a 
right  to  be,  fixed  ez  I  was  with  a  Piscopaleen 
preacher  stickin'  to  me  closer  then  a  burdock  burr 
to  a  setter  dog's  tail.  I  didn't  say  a  word,  but 
jest  set  there  with  me  eyes  on  the  mo'ntain  like 
he  wasn't  about. 

"  By  an'  by  he  speaks.  '  Mr.  Huckin,  that's  a 
nice  mule  you  hev  runnin*  'round  the  pasture  ad- 
joinin*  our  church.' 

"  '  So,'  sais  I. 

"  '  An'  mebbe  you  wouldn't  mind  pasturin'  him 
in  some  other  field  a  Sunday,'  he  went  on.  '  Ye 
mind  a  few  weeks  ago  I  sent  you  a  message  askin' 
that  you  keep  your  cattle  out  o'  that  field  on  the 
Sabbath  because  they  disturbs  our  service.  Ye 
mind  it,  don't  ye?' 

" '  Dimly,'  I  answers. 

" '  Well,'  he  went  on,  '  I  guesst  it  must  'a'  ben 
pretty  dim,  fer  last  week  ye  forgot  to  take  'em 


Eben  Huckin's  Conversion.        225 

out  an'  added  that  nice  mule  to  the  flock.  I  like 
that  beast  mighty  well,  but  I  objects  to  his  puttin' 
his  head  in  the  chancery  winder  durin'  the  most 
solemn  part  of  our  service,  like  he  done  the  other 
day.' 

"  'Hen  I  pictured  that  ole  mule  attendin'  the 
Tiscopaleen  preachin'  I  wanted  to  laugh  all  over, 
but  I  didn't  dast  fer  it  'ud  'a'  give  him  an  openin'. 
I  jest  turned  an'  looked  at  the  preacher  ez  stern 
ez  I  could. 

"  '  Perhaps,'  I  sais, '  these  new-fandangled,  ceety- 
fied  goin's  on  o'  yourn  amused  him.' 

"  He  didn't  smile  then — not  a  bit  of  it.  He  was 
riled — bad  riled,  an'  pinted  his  finger  at  me  an' 
cried,  '  See  here,  you  old  hardshell.'  That  was 
the  wery  name  he  called  me.  '  See  here,'  he  sais. 
'  Since  I've  ben  a  missionary  in  this  community 
I've  tried  to  conduct  meself  in  a  proper  an'  hum- 
ble sperrit,  but  ef  I  hev  to  carry  my  missionary 
efforts  on  among  the  mules,  I'll  do  it  with  a  gun.' 

"  'Hen  I  heard  that  I  stood  right  up  an'  glared 
at  him.  I  didn't  mind  his  shootin'.  It  wasn't 
that  what  stirred  me  up.  It  wasn't  that  what 
made  me  shake  me  stick  in  the  air  like  I  was 
scotchin'  a  chestnut  tree.  No,  sirs. 

"  '  Mission'ry ! '  I  sais.  '  Then  all  we  is  heathen,' 
I  sais.  '  Parson,  folks  hev  ben  singin'  sams  in  this 
walley  fer  a  hundred  an'  fifty  year.  The  folks 
in  this  walley  hes  ben  contributin'  to  the  sup- 
port o'  mission'ries  in  furrin  lan's  fer  the  last 
15 


226  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

cent'ry.  There  are  more  camp-meetin's,  an'  bush- 
meetin's,  an'  protracted  meetin's,  an'  revivals  an' 
love-feasts  in  this  walley  in  a  year  than  they  are 
years  in  your  life.  Yit  you  calls  yourself  a  mis- 
sion'ry.  You  complains  about  my  cattle  dis- 
turbin'  your  meetin's.  Ef  they  enjoy  listenin'  to 
your  mission'ry  efforts  in  behalf  o*  we  heathen,  I 
don't  think  I  otter  stop  it.  You  might  do  'em 
some  good.' 

"  With  that  I  turned  an'  walked  down  the  road. 
I  never  looked  'round  tell  I  come  to  the  edge  o' 
the  peach  orchard.  Then  I  peeked  back  over  me 
shoulder.  There  was  the  preacher,  still  standin' 
be  the  apple  tree  lookin*  after  me.  He  was  smil- 
in'.  Mighty  souls  !  Smilin' !  I  could  'a'  choked 

him." 

***** 

An  oak  tree,  upturned,  its  roots  stretched  forth 
appealingly  in  the  air,  its  branches  washing  help- 
lessly to  and  fro  in  the  stream,  a  broken  scow  lying 
high  upon  the  beach,  bottom  up,  a  great  crevasse 
in  the  side  of  the  canal  through  which  could  be 
seen  an  imprisoned  and  deserted  canal-boat,  told 
of  the  spring  flood.  The  Juniata  had  fallen 
again  to  its  natural  courses,  but  it  was  still  turbu- 
lent and  the  current  was  running  strongly.  It 
was  fast  growing  dark.  Heavy  clouds  were  rolling 
along  the  mountains  from  the  west  whence 
sounded  the  low  grumbling  of  the  coming  storm. 

Eben    Huckin,   standing   by  his  boat,   looked 


Eben  Huckin's  Conversion.        227 

anxiously  up  the  river,  and  then  across  to  where 
the  village  had  been  lost  in  the  fast  gathering 
blackness.  By  a  hard  pull  to  the  opposite  bank 
and  a  run  up  half  a  mile  of  level  road  he  might 
make  the  shelter  of  the  mill  before  the  clouds 
broke.  But  this  meant  tremendous  exertion  and 
Eben,  with  the  rust  of  sixty  years  in  his  joints, 
preferred  a  drenching.  So  he  tucked  his  basket 
in  the  locker  in  the  stern  and  fixed  his  oars  as  de- 
liberately as  though  the  sun  were  smiling  over- 
head. Then  he  began  to  push  out  into  the  stream. 

The  rattle  of  gravel  flying  before  fast  falling 
feet  and  a  crashing  of  laurel  bushes  along  the  tow- 
path  caused  him  to  pause. 

"  Hold  on  there  !  "  came  a  voice.  "  Take  me 
over." 

A  moment  later  a  man  emerged  from  among 
the  trees  and  came  tumbling  down  the  bank.  It 
was  Dawson.  He  stopped  short  and  hesitated 
when  he  saw  Eben,  and  was  about  to  turn  back 
when  the  old  man  said  brusquely,  "  Git  in." 

Impelled  by  a  flash  of  lightning  on  the  moun- 
tain side  and  a  crash  of  thunder  overhead,  the  rec- 
tor scrambled  into  the  stern  of  the  boat.  Eben 
gave  it  a  shove  and  climbed  in  after  him.  The 
river  had  seized  the  clumsy  craft  and  had  swept  it 
far  out  from  the  bank  before  the  old  man  could 
fix  his  oars  and  get  It  under  control.  Then  with 
steady  strokes  he  bore  away  for  the  other  side. 

As  Dawson  sat  watching  the  coming  storm  and 


228  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

felt  the  boat  moving  along  through  the  water,  carry- 
ing him  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  lights  of  the  village, 
he  forgot  the  incident  of  the  mule  and  the  quarrel 
of  the  previous  day  and  remembered  only  that  his 
enemy  was  taking  him  from  the  dark,  forbidding 
mountains  behind,  where  the  very  trees  were 
thrashing  their  limbs  and  straining  to  and  fro  as 
though  they  would  break  from  their  imprisonment 
and  run  for  shelter  too. 

"  I  can  never  thank  you  enough  for  rowing  me 
over,  Mr.  Huckin,"  he  said. 

There  was  no  reply  save  a  vicious  creak  of  the 
row-locks.  The  old  man  paused  at  the  end  of  the 
stroke  but  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  sky  over- 
head. It  seemed  as  if  he  was  about  to  answer  and 
then  thought  better  of  it,  for,  ignoring  his  com- 
panion completely,  he  leaned  sharply  forward, 
caught  the  water  with  the  blades  and  sent  a 
shower  splashing  over  the  stern.  Dawson  was  wet 
through.  He  was  a  young  man  with  a  temper, 
and  while  he  could  enjoy  an  intellectual  combat 
with  the  rough  old  fellow  before  him,  he  had  no 
mind  to  be  under  dog  in  a  physical  encounter. 

"  See  here,  Eben  Huckin,"  he  said  quietly, 
but  in  a  voice  of  determination.  "  Just  handle 
those  oars  a  little  more  properly  or  I'll  take  com- 
mand of  this  craft." 

There  was  another  loud  rattle  of  the  row-locks, 
and  the  rector  involuntarily  closed  his  eyes  and 
ducked,  thinking  to  catch  the  oncoming  wave  on 


Eben  Huckin's  Conversion.        229 

the  top  of  his  broad  hat.  The  expected  deluge 
did  not  materialize,  and  he  looked  up  in  surprise 
to  see  Eben  leaning  over  the  side  of  the  boat 
grasping  wildly  at  an  oar  which  was  now  far  out 
of  his  reach  and  floating  rapidly  away. 

"  Oh,  my  Gawd !  "  cried  the  old  man,  throwing 
himself  into  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  "  We're 
loss,  Parson,  we're  loss  !  " 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands  and  swung 
despairingly  to  and  fro,  crying,  "  We're  loss — 
we're  loss ! " 

The  boat  had  turned  around  and  was  being 
swept  along  stern  foremost  by  the  swift  current. 
Dawson  saw  this,  but  the  peril  of  their  position 
was  not  yet  clear  to  him. 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  said  quietly,  "  but  I  don't 
understand  just  what  has  happened." 

"  Happened  !  "  cried  Eben.  "  Happened  ?  Why, 
your  talkin'  done  it.  I  was  listenin'  to  you,  an' 
an  oar  got  caught  in  some  brushwood  an'  twisted 
outen  my  hand.  I  jumped  fer  it,  lettin'  go  o'  the 
other.  Now  they're  both  gone." 

"  But  as  far  as  I  can  see  the  only  difference  is 
we're  going  in  another  direction  and  a  great  deal 
faster,"  said  the  rector  calmly. 

"We're  just  goin'  right  fer  the  canal  dam," 
groaned  the  old  man.  "  It's  only  four  mile 
straight  away,  an'  'hen  the  river's  like  this  here, 
it's  a  reg'lar  Niagry." 

"  Hum ! "    Dawson   glanced   to   his   left    anx- 


230  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

iously.  The  mountains  were  now  lost  in  the 
darkness.  He  looked  to  the  right  to  see  the 
lights  of  the  village  already  far  up  the  river. 

"  Eben,"  he  asked,  "  is  there  no  way  we  can 
steer  her  into  the  shore  ?  " 

"  All  the  rudders  in  the  worl',  ef  we  had  'em, 
wouldn't  git  us  outen  this  current." 

"  Is  there  no  island  we  are  likely  to  run  into  ?  " 

"  Nawthin'  but  Bass  Rock,  an*  ez  it's  only  ten 
feet  square  we  mowt  ez  well  hope — no,  no,  it 
ain't  no  uset." 

"  We  might  swim." 

"  I  can't  swim." 

"  I  can — a  little.  If  you  could  we  would  get 
out." 

Then  the  clouds  broke  and  the  rain  came  down 
in  torrents.  They  were  enveloped  in  blackness 
and  could  no  longer  see  one  another. 

To  Dawson,  sitting  in  the  stern,  his  hands 
grasping  the  sides  of  the  boat,  his  head  bowed 
against  the  storm,  it  seemed  as  though  they  had 
suddenly  been  carried  out  on  a  great  sea.  Land 
was  near,  but  it  might  as  well  have  been  a  thou- 
sand miles  away.  A  plunge  over  the  side  and  a 
few  strong  strokes  might  take  him  to  safety.  But 
he  could  not  desert  the  old  man — not  till  he  felt 
the  craft  sinking  beneath  him  and  the  water  closing 
over  his  head.  The  boat  swung  up  and  down  in 
monotonous  cadence,  and  he  felt  himself  being 
carried  helplessly  on  and  on. 


Eben  Huckin's  Conversion.         231 

There  was  a  flash  of  lightning,  a  deafening 
crash  overhead,  and  all  was  dark  again.  It  was 
but  for  an  instant,  and  yet  he  saw  clearly,  hardly 
a  stone's  throw  away,  a  small  house  on  the  river 
bank.  A  thin  wreath  of  smoke  was  righting  its 
way  out  of  the  chimney  against  the  rain.  In  one 
window  there  was  a  light,  and  in  that  light  a  man 
was  standing,  complacently  smoking  a  pipe  and 
peering  out  through  the  narrow  panes  and  over 
the  river,  watching  the  play  of  the  lightning  along 
the  Tuscaroras. 

Huckin  half  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  It's  ole  Hen  Andrews,"  he  cried.  "  I  won- 
der ef  he  seen  us." 

Thereupon  he  shouted  lustily  for  help.  He 
continued  his  unavailing  cries  for  some  minutes, 
and  then  sank  back  to  his  seat. 

"  Parson,"  he  said,  as  if  by  a  sudden  thought, 
"  Parson,  kin  you  pray  ?  " 

"  I've  been  praying  all  along,  Eben,"  was  the 
quiet  reply. 

"  Mebbe  it'll  do  some  good,"  Eben  rejoined, 
"  I  hain't  never  ben  much  on  it  meself — not  ez 
much  ez  I  otter  'a'  ben,  but  my  pap  he  was 
powerful  in  prayer." 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  and  added  regretfully, 
"  Oh,  don't  I  wish  he  was  here  now !  " 

"  You  are  not  afraid  to  die,  are  you  ?  "  asked 
Dawson. 

"  Most  any  other  way,  I'm  not,"  was  the  an- 


232  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

swer.  "  But  I  don't  like  drownin',  an'  I  don't 
make  no  bones  about  it.  Our  family  hes  allus 
gone  be  apoplexy,  an'  I  had  an  idee  I'd  go  that 
way,  too.  All  this  here  comes  so  sudden.  Oh, 
Parson,  it's  sech  an  onrastless,  oncertain  way  o' 
goin',  a-washin'  roun'  like  this  fer  hours.  Ef  it 
'ud  stop  after  we  was  gone,  I  wouldn't  min'  so 
much,  but  to  keep  on  a-washin'  an'  bobbin'  roun' 
this  ole  river — Parson,  Parson,  pray  agin." 

The  old  man  leaned  forward  and  clasped  his 
companion's  hand. 

"  Pray  agin,  Parson,  pray  agin  !  "  he  cried. 

A  flash  of  lightning  lit  up  the  river.  Just 
ahead  Dawson  saw  a  broad  rock.  As  they  were 
going  they  would  sweep  by  it.  He  sprang  for- 
ward over  the  seats  until  he  reached  the  bow. 
Then  he  leaped  into  the  water,  still  keeping  a 
fast  hold  with  one  hand  on  the  side  of  the  boat. 
A  few  strong  strokes  and  the  clumsy  craft  turned 
her  head.  The  swimmer's  feet  touched  the  shelv- 
ing stone,  and  he  reached  out  blindly  till  he  felt 
a  jagged  bit  of  rock.  The  stern  of  the  boat  swung 
around  and  it  tugged  hard  to  release  itself  from 
the  firm  grasp  that  had  checked  its  wild  career. 

Eben  Huckin  tumbled  into  the  water.  Daw- 
son  seized  him  and  dragged  him  from  the  river, 
while  the  boat,  now  free,  went  whirling  away 
down  stream. 

For  a  long  time  the  two  men  lay  in  silence, 
face  downward,  on  the  stone.  Then  the  storm 


Eben  Huckin's  Conversion.        233 

went  by  and  the  moon  came  climbing  up  the 
other  side  of  the  mountain,  and  by  its  light  they 
could  make  out  the  narrow  confines  of  their 
refuge.  It  was  hardly  ten  feet  in  length  and 
breadth,  and  was  divided  down  the  middle  by  a 
crevice.  They  could  see  the  river  whirling  on 
all  sides.  To  their  right,  over  the  stretch  of 
water,  rose  the  Tuscaroras ;  to  their  other  hand 
they  looked  into  the  blackness  of  the  woods  which 
extended  from  the  bank  to  the  ridges  miles  away. 

"  Parson,  do  ye  hear  that  rumblin',  that  rum- 
blin'  jest  like  the  mill  in  busy  times,  'hen  all  the 
wheels  is  goin'?"  Huckin  was  sitting  up  watch- 
ing Dawson  wring  the  water  from  his  felt  hat. 
The  rector  strained  his  ears. 

"  That's  the  dam,  Parson.  It's  jest  a  piece  be- 
low here,  an'  mighty  near  we  come  to  hearin' 
that  soun'  most  onpleasant  loud.  Who'd  'a'  thot 
we'd  ever  hit  this  here  bit  o'  rock  ?  " 

"  Why,  Eben,  I  rather  had  an  idea  all  along 
that  we  might  do  so,"  Dawson  laughed.  "  I  was 
watching  for  it.  I  had  no  intention  of  letting 
myself  get  drowned  when  you  heathen  in  the  val- 
ley needed  a  missionary  so  badly." 

"  True,  Parson,  true,"  said  the  old  man  fer- 
vently. "  It  'ud  'a'  ben  a  hard  blow  fer  the  walley 
to  hed  you  tuk  jest  at  this  time." 

The  rector  smiled  faintly.  He  gazed  inquir- 
ingly at  his  companion.  The  moon  shining  full 
on  Eben's  countenance  gave  him  a  saintly  ap- 


234  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

pearance,  for  the  rougher  features  had  disappeared 
in  the  half-light,  and  the  long  white  hair  and 
beard,  so  unkempt  in  the  full  glare  of  day,  now 
framed  a  benevolent,  serious  face.  Dawson  was 
satisfied. 

For  a  long  time  nothing  passed  between  the 
two.  Then  Eben  nudged  the  rector  gently  and 
whispered,  "  D'ye  believe  in  sperrits  ?  " 

"  Why,  of  course  not,"  was  the  reply. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you  don't." 

"Why  did  you  ask?" 

"  Well,  I  thot  ef  ye  did  you'd  like  to  know  this 
here  rock  is  sayd  to  have  a  ha'nt." 

"  To  be  haunted  !  "  exclaimed  Dawson,  edging 
a  little  closer. 

"  Yes,  be  Bill  Springle's  ghos'.  I  never  put 
much  stock  in  the  story  meself,  but  that's  what 
folks  sais.  I  know  them  ez  claims  to  hev  seen  it. 
I  knows  one  man  ez  refused  to  sleep  here  all 
night  fer  a  five-dollar  bill." 

"  Goodness  me ! "  said  the  rector.  "  I  had  no 
idea  the  people  hereabouts  were  so  superstitious." 

"  It  ain't  jest  superstition,  Parson.  It's  mostly 
seein'  an'  believin'.  Bill  Springle's  ben  dead  these 
thirty  year,  an'  in  that  time,  they  sais,  many  folks 
hes  seen  him." 

"  Eben,  the  spirits  of  the  dead  have  better 
things  to  do  than  to  spend  their  nights  sitting  on 
cold,  damp  rocks." 

"  I   know,    Parson,    I    know  ;  but   the   case  o' 


Eben  Huckin's  Conversion.        235 

Springle  was  onusual.  He  lived  back  along  the 
other  mo'ntain  an'  one  night  killed  a  pedler  fer 
his  money.  The  sheriff's  posse  chased  him  clean 
acrosst  the  walley  to  the  river,  an'  here  they  loss 
sight  o*  him.  Fer  a  whole  week  they  beat  up  an' 
down  the  bank  an'  then  give  up  the  chase.  A  year 
after  they  foun'  all  that  was  left  o'  Bill  Springle 
wedged  right  in  that  crack  ahint  me." 

Dawson  arose  to  his  knees  and  peered  over  the 
prostrate  body  of  his  companion  into  the  interest- 
ing crevice.  Then  he  fell  back  to  his  old  place, 
giving  vent,  as  he  did  so,  to  a  little  laugh. 

"  He'd  starved  to  death,"  Eben  continued,  "  an' 
they  sais  that  sometimes  on  stormy  nights  he  kin 
be  seen  settin'  here.  I  never  put  much  faith  in 
the  story  meself,  ez " 

"  I'm  glad  you  don't,  Eben,"  the  rector  inter- 
rupted. "  But  suppose  we  talk  of  something  more 
cheerful." 

A  long  silence  followed. 

"  Parson,"  the  old  man  at  length  said,  "  why 
don't  ye  sleep  ?" 

"  On  this  narrow  rock  ?     I'd  roll  into  the  river." 

"I'll  watch  ye.  D'ye  see  that  lone  pine  tree 
standin'  out  o'  that  charcoal  clearin'  on  top  o'  the 
mo'ntain  ?  "  Huckin  indicated  the  spot  with  his 
hand,  and  Dawson  nodded.  "  Well,  'hen  the 
moon  gits  over  that  tree  I'll  wake  ye  up.  Then 
I'll  sleep." 

The  rector  replied  by  rolling  over  on  his  back 


236  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

and  watching  the  stars  until  his  eyes  closed.  Soon 
the  old  man  heard  a  soft,  contented  purring  and 
he  knew  that  for  a  time  he  was  alone — at  least  till 
Bill  Springle  joined  him.  For  a  long  while  he 
sat  in  deep  thought  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
whirling  waters  below  him.  Suddenly  he  leaned 
over  and  peered  into  the  face  of  the  man  sleeping 
at  his  side. 

"  Parson,"  he  said  softly,  "  I  guesst  ye  needn't 
mind  no  more  about  that  mule." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

A  Piece  in  the  Paper. 

THE  Chronic  Loafer  arose  from  the  bench  and 
stepped  to  the  edge  of  the  porch.  He  rested  his 
left  hand  on  the  pillar,  thrust  his  right  hand  into 
his  pocket  and  gazed  searchingly  at  the  moun- 
tains. 

"  What's  keepin'  you  so  quiet  to-day  ?  "  asked 
the  Teacher,  lifting  his  eyes  from  the  county 
paper.  "  One  might  suppose  from  the  way  you 
was  watchin'  those  mountains,  you  was  expectin' 
them  to  come  over  here  so  you  could  go  fishin'." 

The  Loafer  turned  and  looked  down  on  the 
pedagogue.  There  was  pity  in  his  eyes  and  dis- 
dain lurking  about  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

"  Well,  you  don't  feel  hurt,  do  you  ?  "  snapped 
the  Teacher. 

"  I  guess  you  never  fished,"  was  the  reply. 

"  To  tell  the  truth  I  prefer  more  active  pur- 
suits." The  learned  man  said  this  with  the  air 
of  one  who  was  in  the  front  rank  in  the  great 
battle  of  life.  "  I  prefer  doin'  things  to  loungin' 

237 


238  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

along  a  creek  tryin'  to  catch  a  few  small  trout 
that  never  did  me  any  harm." 

"  I  thot  you'd  never  fished  much,"  said  the 
Loafer,  letting  himself  down  on  the  steps  and 
getting  out  his  pipe.  "  Ef  you  hed  you'd  know 
that  half  the  pleasure  of  it  is  gittin*  to  the  stream. 
You  figure  on  how  nice  it'll  be  'hen  you're  away 
from  the  dusty  road,  in  the  woods,  lyin*  in  the 
grass  'longside  of  a  cool,  gurglin*  pool,  with  the 
trout  squabblin'  among  themselves  to  git  at  your 
bait.  You  arrive  there,  an'  first  thing  you  set  on 
a  rattlesnake.  That  makes  you  oneasy  fer  the 
rest  of  the  day.  Then  you  find  you've  left  your 
bait-can  at  home  an'  stirs  up  some  yeller-jackets, 
ez  you  are  huntin'  under  rocks  fer  worms.  You 
lays  down  your  extry  hooks  where  you  can  find 
'em  quick,  an'  then  'hen  you  need  'em  you  dis- 
covers they're  in  your  foot.  No,  sir,  ef  I  was 
wantin'  to  go  fishin'  in  them  mo'ntains,  an'  I 
hed  the  power,  I'd  tell  'em  to  git  back  five  mile 
so  I'd  hev  furder  to  walk  to  reach  the  run." 

"  I  hain't  got  nawthin'  agin  your  idees  o'  fish- 
in',"  said  the  Patriarch  from  his  place  on  the 
bench  between  the  Tinsmith  and  the  G.  A.  R. 
Man,  "  but  what  you  say  about  expectin'  is  ridic'- 
lous.  You  was  sayin'  a  bit  ago  that  you  was 
goin'  to  hev  chicken  an'  waffles  fer  supper  to- 
night. You've  put  in  a  fine  day  expectin'  it. 
But  ef  you  goes  home  an'  sets  down  to  sausage 
an'  zulicks,  I  can  see  things  flyin'  'round  your 


A  Piece  in  the  Paper.  239 

shanty  most  amazin'.  All  the  joys  o'  expecta- 
tion '11  be  wiped  outen  your  mind  by  dissy- 
pintment." 

"  But  you  are  talkin'  o'  great  expectations, 
Gran'pap,"  said  the  Loafer.  "  They  result  in 
great  dissypintments.  I've  been  speakin'  o'  the 
leetle  things  o'  life.  Now  there's  the  old  soldier." 
He  pointed  to  the  veteran.  "  He  was  eight  year 
expectin'  to  git  a  pension.  He  talked  o'  naw- 
thin'  else.  Ef  he'd  only  git  it  he'd  be  happy. 
Well,  he  got  it,  an'  he  lost  the  pleasure  o'  lookin' 
for'a'd  to  it.  Is  he  satisfied  ?  No.  He's  jest 
put  in  wouchers  claimin'  that  th'ee  new  diseases 
hev  cropped  out  on  him  an'  that  he  laid  the 
foundations  fer  'em  in  the  Wilderness  thirty  year 
ago.  He  wants  a  raise.  He's  happy  agin,  fer 
he  is  expectin'." 

The  G.  A.  R.  Man  arose. 

"  I'm  goin'  home,"  he  said,  "  an'  I  guess  I 
might  ez  well  stop  in  at  your  place  an'  tell  your 
missus  to  never  mind  the  chicken  an'  waffles  ez 
you've  hed  enough  fun  jest  expectin'  'em." 

"  Well,  that  would  be  a  good  idee,"  the  Loafer 
drawled.  "  But  you'd  better  jest  yell  it  to  her 
over  the  fence.  You  know  she's  ben  expectin' 
chicken  an'  waffles,  too." 

The  veteran  dropped  back  to  his  place  on  the 
bench. 

The  Patriarch  nudged  him  and  said  pleasantly, 
"  Why  don't  you  go  on  ?  " 


240  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

"  I  guesst  I'd  better  wait  fer  the  stage  an'  git 
the  news,"  was  the  growling  reply. 

"  You  hain't  answered  my  first  question  yet," 
said  the  Teacher  to  the  Loafer.  "  You  was  stand- 
in'  there  half  an  hour  lookin'  at  them  mountains 
as  though  they  was  made  of  chicken  an'  waffles. 
You  were  thinkin'  of  somethin'." 

"  True,"  the  Loafer  replied.  "  I  was  thinkin' 
o*  Reginal'  Deeverox  an'  Lord  Desmon." 

"  Mighty  souls  !  "  the  Patriarch  cried.  "  Regi- 
nal' Deeverox  an'  Lord  Desmon  !  You  are  the 
greatest  man  fer  makin'  acquaintances  I  ever  seen." 

"  Deeverox  was  that  new  segare  drummer  that 
come  th'oo  here  yesterday,  wasn't  he  ?  "  the  Tin- 
smith inquired. 

"  No,"  the  Loafer  responded.  "  He  was  never  a 
segare  drummer  ez  fur  ez  I  know.  He  was  the 
real  hair  to  the  Earldom  of  Desmon." 

"  Desmon !  An'  where  in  all  nations  is  Des- 
mon ?  "  the  Patriarch  exclaimed. 

"  Englan',"  was  the  calm  reply. 

"  Then  I  s'pose  you  was  fussin'  'round  Englan' 
last  week,  'hen  we  thot  ye  was  wisitin'  your  ma's 
folks  in  Buzzard  Walley,"  cried  the  Tinsmith. 
"  Now  what  air  you  givin'  us  ?  " 

"  'Hen  I  told  you  uns  I  was  wisitin'  Mother's 
folks,  I  sayd  what  was  true."  The  Loafer  was 
undisturbed  by  the  storm  he  had  raised  and  spoke 
very  slowly,  emphasizing  his  words  by  a  shake  of 
his  pipe.  "  You  see  it  was  this  'ay.  The  man  I 


A  Piece  in  the  Paper.  241 

was  speakin*  of  was  called  Lord  Desmon,  tho'  his 
reg'lar  name  was  Earl  o'  Desmon.  His  pap's 
name  was  Lord  Desmon,  too,  an'  so  was  his  gran'- 
pap's.  Before  his  gran'pap  died,  his  pap's  older 
brother,  that  is  the  uncle  o'  the  man  I'm  referrin' 
to,  merried  a  beautiful  maid  who  was  workin' 
about  the  placet.  The  old  man  cast  him  off  an' 
he  went  to  South  Ameriky,  leavin'  a  son  who 
went  be  the  name  o'  Reginal'  Deeverox.  Be 
rights  this  Deeverox  should  'a'  hed  the  property, 
bein'  the  hair  o'  the  oldest  son.  He  didn't  know 
it  tho',  an'  his  uncle  didn't  take  the  trouble  to 
hunt  him  up  'hen  the  gran'pap  died,  but  jest 
settled  down  on  the  farm  himself." 

"  What  in  the  name  o'  common  sense  is  an 
earl  ?  "  asked  the  Miller.  "  What  does  he  do  ?  " 

"  Nawthin',"  the  Loafer  explained.  "  In  Eng- 
lan'  an  earl  is  a  descendant  o'  them  ez  first 
cleared  the  land.  He  usually  hes  a  good  bit  o' 
property  an'  farms  it  on  the  half." 

"  What  gits  me  is  jest  how  many  o'  them  Lord 
Desmons  they  was,"  the  Tinsmith  interposed. 

"  There  was  the  original  gran'pap — he's  one. 
Then  there  was  his  son  that  merried  the  maid  an' 
ought  to  'a'  ben  earl — he  is  two.  Next  there  was 
his  brother  who  got  the  property — he  is  th'ee. 
His  son  makes  four,  an'  Reginal'  Deeverox,  whose 
right  name  was  Lord  Desmon,  is  five." 

"  That  there  name  Lord  seemed  to  run  in  the 

family,"  said  the  Miller.     "  I  don't  wonder  they 
16 


242  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

got  mixed.     Why  didn't  they  hev  a  Joe  or  a 
Jawhn  ?  " 

"  Was  these  here  some  o'  your  pap's  friends  ?  " 
asked  the  Patriarch. 

"  I  only  wished  he  hed  'a*  knowd  them,"  the 
Loafer  answered.  "  I  don't  think  he  did  tho*. 
Mebbe  he  was  acquainted  with  Alice  Fairfax,  but 
I  never  heard  him  speak  o'  her  an'  The  Home  an 
Fireplace  never  mentioned  him  ez  bein'  at  her 
castel.  I  guessed  ef  Pap  hed  'a*  been  there  he 
would  'a*  told  me,  fer  he  wasn't  much  on  keepin' 
things  secret." 

The  Patriarch  brought  his  stick  down  on  the 
floor  with  a  vigorous  bang. 

"  See  here,"  he  cried,  "  what  has  got  into  you 
anyway  ?  Ef  you  knows  anything  about  this  here 
Lord  Desmon,  Reginal'  Deeverox,  Alice  Fairfax 
business,  out  with  it,  I  sais.  'Hen  you  hears  a 
piece  o'  news  ye  jest  set  an*  smiles  all  over  it  to 
yourself  like  ez  tho'  you  was  tormentin'  us.  Ez 
ef  we  cared  !  Let  anybody  else  hev  a  bit  o'  news 
tho'  an*  you  don't  give  'em  no  rest  tell  you've 
wormed  it  out  of  'em — not  tell  you've  wormed  it 
all  out  of  'em." 

"  Now  see  here,"  was  the  spirited  answer,  "  it 
ain't  jest  that  I  should  be  accused  this  'ay.  The 
Home  an'  Fireplace  magazine  was  layin'  'round 
the  counter  a  whole  week  afore  I  even  looked  at 
it.  I  s'posed  you'd  all  ben  readin'  it.  That's 
why  I  thot  ye  might  help  me  out." 


A  Piece  in  the  Paper.  243 

"  Shucks !  So  all  this  here  is  nothin'  but  some- 
thin'  you've  been  readin'  in  the  paper,"  the 
Teacher  sneered. 

"  Exact.  An'  ef  you'd  read  the  same  piecet  I 
guess  you'd  ben  worrit,  too." 

"  Reginal'  Deeverox — Deeverox."  The  Patri- 
arch was  thinking  hard  and  talking  to  himself. 
"  I  don't  mind  that  piecet,  an'  I  read  most  o'  that 
paper,"  he  said,  looking  up.  "  What  page  was  it 
on?" 

"  I  don't  mind  the  number,"  the  Loafer  an- 
swered, "  but  it  begins  on  a  page  that  hes  a  pic- 
tur  o'  the  house  o'  Miss  Annie  Milliken  in  Too- 
tlesbury,  Massachusetts,  an'  a  long  letter  from 
her  sayin'  how  she  hed  been  bed-rid  fer  thirty 
year  tell  a  kind  friend  recommended  Dr.  Tarball's 
Indian  Wegetable  Pacific." 

"  Now  I  do  recklect  somethin'  about  that  caset," 
the  Tinsmith  interposed.  "  It  was  a  fight  over  a 
bit  o'  property  an'  a  girl." 

"  Exact,"  said  the  Loafer. 

"  Well,  how  d'  ye  know  it's  so  ?  "  the  Miller 
asked.  "  Because  it's  in  the  paper  is  no  sign  it's 
true." 

"  See  here,"  was  the  sharp  reply,  "  do  you  s'pose 
'hen  they  is  so  much  in  this  world  that's  true  the 
editor  o'  The  Home  an'  Fireplace  'ud  go  to  the 
trouble  o'  makin'  up  lies  to  print  ?  Why,  it 
wouldn't  pay." 

The   Miller  was  about   to  argue   against    this 


244  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

proposition,  but  the  Patriarch  leaned  over  and 
laid  a  hand  on  his  knee,  checking  him. 

"  Jest  wait  tell  we  find  out  who  got  the  prop- 
erty," the  old  man  said. 

"  An*  the  girl,"  cried  the  Tinsmith. 

"  That's  jest  what  I've  ben  tryin'  to  find  out," 
said  the  Loafer.  Forthwith  he  plunged  into  the 
history  of  Reginald  Devereux  and  Lord  Des- 
mond. "  You  see  I  found  the  paper  on  the  counter 
yesterday  ez  I  was  waitin'  for  the  mail.  I  re- 
member now  'most  everything  that  was  in  that 
piecet,  an'  most  a  mighty  puzzlin'  piecet  it  was, 
too.  It  begin  at  a  placet  called  Fairfax  Castel, 
which  was  the  home  o'  Alice  Fairfax,  who  the 
paper  sayd  was  most  tremendous  good-lookin', 
bein'  tall  an'  willowy,  with  gold-colored  hair  an' 
what  it  called  p-a-t-r-i-c-i-a-n  cast  o'  features.  She 
was  twenty  year  old  an'  hed  an  income  o'  ten 
thousand  pound  a  year." 

"  Pound    o'    what  ? "  inquired    the    Patriarch. 

"The  paper  didn't  tell.     It  jest  sayd  pound." 

"  That's  the  way  with  them  editors,"  cried  the 
old  man.  "  They  allus  forgits  important  points. 
They  expects  a  man  to  know  everything." 

"I  guess  that  them  must'a'  ben  pound  o' some- 
thin'  they  raised  on  the  place,"  the  Tinsmith  sug- 
gested. 

"That's  jest  the  way  I  looked  at  it,"  the  Loafer 
continued.  "  It  didn't  make  no  difference,  any- 
how, ez  long  ez  she  hed  somethin'  to  live  on. 


A  Piece  in  the  Paper.  245 

This  here  Lord  Desmon  hed  a  placet  near  hers 
an*  used  to  ride  over  every  day  regular  an'  set  up 
with  her.  He  was  tall  an'  hed  keen  black  eyes. 
Wherever  he  went  he  tuk  with  him  a  hound  he 
called  M-e-p-h-i-s-t-o  or  somethin'  like  that." 

"  Now  ye  mind  that  he  hed  no  real  claim  on 
the  Desmon  placet  an'  he  knowd  it.  Before  his 
pap  died  he  hed  called  him  to  his  bedside  an' 
sayd  to  him,  '  Beware  of  a  man  with  an  eagle 
tattooed  on  his  right  arm.  He's  the  real  hair.' 
So  Lord  re'lized  that  he  was  livin'  on  a  farm  that 
belonged  to  the  son  o'  his  pap's  brother.  He 
knowd  that  afore  his  uncle  died  he'd  sent  word 
home  that  his  son  an'  hair  could  be  told  be  the 
eagle.  Of  course  the  warnin'  made  Lord  kind  o' 
oneasy  at  first,  but  ez  the  years  went  by  an'  he 
heard  nawthin'  o'  his  cousin  he  concided  that  the 
ole  man  hed  jest  ben  th'owin'  a  scare  inter  him. 
Meantime  he'd  ben  doin'  wery  well  with  Alice 
Fairfax,  an'  things  was  all  goin'  his  way.  Then 
a  strange  artist  come  th'oo  the  walley.  He  was 
paintin' " 

The  Patriarch  interrupted  with  a  hilarious 
chuckle. 

"  Now,  boys,  look  out,"  he  cried.  "  They  never 
yit  was  a  painter  that  wasn't  catchin'  with  the 
weemen.  Ye  mind  Bill  Spiegelsole's  widdy  an' 
how  she'd  fixed  it  up  to  merry  Joe  Dumple?  She 
hired  a  regular  painter  to  come  out  from  town 
to  put  a  new  coat  on  the  house,  an'  he  made  him- 


246  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

self  so  all-fired  handy  'round  the  placet  mendin' 
stove-pipes,  puttin'  in  glass  an'  slickin'  up  the 
furnitur'  she  took  him  afore  Joe  got  there." 

"  This  here  artist  wasn't  one  o'  that  kind,"  the 
Loafer  said.  "  He  made  them  regular  hand-paint- 
in's  they  hangs  in  parlors,  an'  done  a  leetle  in  the 
way  o'  portrates.  He  put  up  at  the  tavern  an' 
then  started  out  fer  a  stroll  th'oo  the  Fairfax 
placet.  He  hed  jest  entered  the  park,  the  paper 
sayd,  'hen 

"  The  what  ?  "  asked  the  Miller. 

"  The  park.  Don't  ye  know,  one  o'  them  places 
fixed  up  special  fer  walkin'  in,  with  benches,  an' 
brick  pavements,  a  fountain,  an'  flower-beds  an'  a 
crowket  set.  Hain't  ye  never  seen  the  one  at 
Horrisburg  ?  " 

"  Oh,  one  o'  them  ! "  the  Miller  said.  "  Well,  I 
guesst  those  must  'a'  ben  pound  o'  gold  Alice 
Fairfax  got  a  year." 

The  Loafer  resumed  the  narrative. 

"  Ez  the  artist  walked  along  th'oo  the  park  he 
heard  a  scream,  follered  be  a  beautiful  girl  who 
run  down  the  road  pursued  be  a  ferocious  dog. 
The  paper  sayd  the  great  hound  was  in  the  act  o' 
leapin'  at  her  to  catch  her  be  the  neck  'hen  the 
stranger  run  for'a'd  an'  grabbin'  the  brute  be  the 
th'oat  throttled  the  life  outen  him.  The  anymal's 
fiery  breath,  the  paper  sayd,  was  blowin'  in  the 
artist's  face  'hen  his  hands  closed  on  the  furry 
neck.  It  was  a  mighty  chose  shave,  I  should 


A  Piece  in  the  Paper.  247 

jedge.  A  minute  later  Lord  Desmon  run  up  all 
out  o'  wind.  The  dead  beast  was  his  M-e-p-Ji~i-s-t-o. 
He  thot  a  heap  o'  the  hound,  an'  the  paper  sayd 
that  'hen  he  looked  on  the  still  quiverin'  body  of 
his  dead  companion  he  swore  to  be  a-v-e-n-g-e-d. 
An'  ez  he  looked  up  at  the  stranger  that  young 
man  knowd  Lord  hed  it  in  fer  him. 

"  Alice  Fairfax  couldn't  thank  the  artist  enough, 
an*  nawthin'  'ud  do  but  he  must  come  up  to  her 
house  an'  meet  her  pap.  'Hen  the  ole  man  hear 
the  story  he  wouldn't  hev  it  any  other  way  but 
that  the  stranger  must  stop  with  them.  The  paper 
sayd  that  he  quickly  pushed  a  button " 

"  He  done  what  ?  "  cried  the  Patriarch. 

"  He  pushed  a  button  an' " 

"  Pushed  a  button  !  Well,  mighty  souls  !  "  the 
G.  A.  R.  Man  exclaimed.  "  What  a  fool  thing  to  do." 

"  He  pushed  a  button  an'  one  o'  the  hands 
appeared.  This  felly's  name  was  Butler  an'  he 
was  employed  jest  a  purpose  to  do  chores  'round 
the  house.  The  ole  man  give  him  orders  to  hev 
Reginal'  Deeverox's — that  was  the  artist's  name — 
trunk  brought  up  from  the  tavern  an'  put  in  the 
spare  room." 

"  I  ain't  got  it  clear  yit,"  the  Miller  interposed. 
"  Ef  ole  man  Fairfax  pushed  oneo'  his  own  waist- 
coat buttons  how  in  the  name  o'  all  the  prophets 
'ud  Butler  feel  it  ?  " 

"  Don't  ye  s'pose  he  might  'a'  pushed  one  o' 
Butler's  waistcoat  buttons  ?  "  replied  the  Loafer. 


248  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

"  That's  a  pint  o'  no  importance.  The  main  thing 
is  that  Deeverox  put  up  at  Fairfax's  an'  from  that 
day  things  went  wrong  with  Lord. 

"  Reginal'  was  a  wonderful  good-lookin'  chap 
He  was  six-foot  tall  an'  wery  soople.  He'd  long, 
curly  hair  that  flowed  over  his  shoulders  like  a 
golden  shower,  ez  the  editor  put  it.  His  bearings 
was  free  an'  noble.  Now  Lord  was  no  slouch 
either,  an'  with  his  money  he  was  pretty  hard  fer 
a  poor  painter  to  beat,  yit — 

"  Joe  Dumple  hed  th'ee  hundred  a  year  an'  a 
fifty-acre  farm,"  the  Patriarch  cried,  "  but  choos- 
in'  between  him  an'  the  painter,  Bill  Spiegelsole's 
widdy  tuk " 

"  I've  told  ye  afore  that  this  here  Deeverox  was 
a  portrate  painter,  an'  ye  can't  settle  this  question 
be  referrin'  to  the  Spiegelsoles  any  way.  Ez  I 
was  sayin',  Reginal'  hed  no  money  but  he  hed  a 
brilliant  mind.  His  face  was  like  an  open  book, 
the  paper  sayd 

"  That's  rather  pecul'ar."  It  was  the  veteran 
who  broke  into  the  story  this  time.  "  There's 
Jerry  Sprout,  who  lives  beyant  Sloshers  Mills,  he 
hes  a  head  jest  the  shape  of  a  fam'ly  Bible,  but  ye 
can  shoot  me  ef  I  can  see  how  a  man  could  hev  a 
face  like  an 

"  Open  book,"  the  Loafer  said.  "  Well,  you  hev 
no  'magination.  But  ef  ye  don't  believe  what 
I'm  tellin',  you  can  go  git  the  paper  an'  read  it 
yourself." 


A  Piece  in  the  Paper.  249 

"  Come,  come ;  no  argyin'."  The  Patriarch 
was  in  his  soothing  mood.  "  What  become  o* 
Lord  ?  " 

"  Lord  hated  Reginal'  with  a  bitter  hatred,  the 
paper  sayd,  because  of  the  death  of  M-e-p-h-i-s-t-o, 
an'  now,  ez  Alice  Fairfax  begin  to  look  not  on- 
kindly  on  the  handsome  stranger,  his  cup  was  more 
embittered  an'  he  wowed  revenge.  Things  kept 
gittin'  hotter  an'  hotter  'round  the  castel.  Ole 
man  Fairfax  was  tickled  to  death  with  Reginal' 
an'  'sisted  on  him  stayin'  all  summer.  Lord 
come  over  regular  every  day,  spyin'  'round  an' 
settin*  up  with  Alice  'hen  he'd  git  a  chancet. 
Time  an'  agin,  the  paper  sayd,  he  asted  her  to 
be  his  own,  but  she  spurned  him.  The  last  time 
he  asted  her  was  at  a  huntin'  party  they  hed  at 
the  castel.  Everybody  in  the  county  was  there 
— Lord  Mussex,  Duke  Dumford,  Earl  Minnows, 
Lady  Montezgewy  an'  a  lot  of  others — all  over 
to  hunt." 

"  Hunt  what  ?  "  asked  the  Miller. 

"  Well,  I  s'pose  they  would  be  likely  to  drive 
five  or  six  mile  over  to  Fairfax's  to  hunt  eggs — 
wouldn't  they  ? "  roared  the  Loafer.  "  Hunt 
what  ?  Mighty  souls  !  What  would  they  hunt  ? 
Foxes,  of  course.  The  whole  party  started  off 
after  the  hounds,  Alice  Fairfax  an'  Lord  Desmon 
leadin'  with " 

"  Hoi'  on  !  "  cried  the  Patriarch.  "  Did  you 
say  weemen  an'  all,  a-huntin'  foxes?  That 


250  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

Englan'  must  be  a  strange  placet.  Why,  it  ain't 
safe  to  trust  a  woman  with  a  gun.  Oh.  what  a 
pictur!  S'pose  we  was  to  go  huntin'  that  'ay 
with  our  weemen."  The  old  man  leaned  back 
and  shook.  "  Pictur  it !  Jest  pictur  it !  Why, 
they  'ud  be  blowed  afore  they  got  to  the  top  o' 
the  first  ridge." 

"  An'  we'd  hev  to  spend  most  of  our  time 
lettin'  the  bars  up  an'  down  so  they  could  git 
th'oo  the  fences,"  the  Tinsmith  said. 

"  Well,  the  weemen  over  there  was  along — least 
that's  what  the  article  sayd,"  the  Loafer  con- 
tinued. "  They  got  track  o'  a  fox  an'  final 
catched  him  in  a  lonely  bit  o'  woods.  They  give 
his  tail  to  Lady  Montezgewy,  who " 

"  She  couldn't  'a'  made  much  of  a  hat  outen 
jest  the  tail,"  said  the  G.  A.  R.  Man. 

"  Well,  the  article  doesn't  explain  much  about 
that.  It  sais  while  these  things  is  occurrin'  we 
will  take  the  reader  to  another  part  o'  the  fiel' 
where  Lord  Desmon  kneels  at  the  feet  of  Alice 
Fairfax.  The  paper  sais  she  sals,  *  I  loves  an- 
other.' '  What,'  sais  he,  the  paper  sais,  springin' 
to  his  feet  an'  makin'  a  movement  ez  tho'  grasp- 
in*  an  unseen  foe.  '  What,'  he  sais,  '  that  low 
painter  varlet ! '  Jest  then,  the  paper  sais,  the 
bushes  was  pushed  aside  an'  forth  jumped  Reginai* 
Deeverox.  •  You  here,  Miss  Fairfax  ?  '  he  sais,  the 
paper  sais.  '  I've  hunted  fer  ye  fur  an'  near.'  In 
his  eagerness  to  reach  her  side  a  twig  cot  his  coat- 


A  Piece  in  the  Paper.  251 

sletve  an'  tore  it  wide  open.  The  paper  sais  ez 
Lord  Desmon  looked  upon  the  splendid  figure  of 
his  rival  he  seen  there  on  his  arm — What  ?  the 
paper  sais.  An  eagle  ! " 

"  Now,  watch  for  a  good  ole  wrastle,"  cried  the 
Patriarch. 

"You're  wrong,  Gran 'pap,"  said  the  Loafer. 
"  They  didn't  dast  fight  afore  a  lady.  Instead 
Lord  jest  ground  his  teeth.  The  paper  sayd  he 
knowd  that  the  lost  hair  o'  the  broad  acres  o'  the 
Desmons  hed  come  to  claim  his  own." 

The  Miller's  clay  pipe  fell  to  the  floor  and 
shattered  into  a  hundred  pieces. 

"  Well,  I'll  swan  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Why,  this 
here  artist  was  one  o'  them  Desmon  boys  ye 
was  speakin'  of  first  off,  wasn't  he?" 

"  What  happened  next  ?  "  inquired  the  Teacher. 

"  The  article  didn't  tell,"  the  Loafer  replied. 
"  It  cut  right  off  there  an*  carried  the  reader  back 
to  Fairfax  Castel.  It  was  evenin'  an'  they  was 
hevin'  a  hunt  ball." 

"A  hunt  what?"  The  Patriarch  leaned  for- 
ward  with  his  hand  to  his  ear. 

"A  hunt  ball — a  dance,"  the  pedagogue  ex- 
plained. "  Over  there  after  huntin'  they  always 
have  a  dance." 

"  Mighty  souls !  but  them  English  does  enjoy 
themselves,"  the  old  man  murmured.  "  Goes 
huntin'  all  day — takes  the  weemen  along  leavin' 
no  one  behind  to  look  after  the  place — then  hes 


252  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

a  dance  after  they  gits  back.  Now  'hen  I  hunted 
foxes  I  was  allus  so  low  down  tired  an'  scratched 
up  be  the  briars  agin  I  got  home,  I  was  satisfied 
to  draw  me  boots,  rub  some  linnyment  on  me 
shins  an'  go  to  bed.  But  go  on.  I  guesst  the 
paper's  right." 

"  That  night,  walkin'  up  an'  down  the  terrace, 
Reginal'  Deeverox  told  Alice  Fairfax  the  secret 
o*  his  life,  the  article  sayd,  how  he  was  Lord 
Desmon  an'  how  the  other  Lord  Desmon  was 
livin'  on  stolen  property.  He  ast  her  to  hev  him, 
an'  ez  she  didn't  say  nawthin'  he  jest  clasped  her 
to  his  boosum,  the  paper  sayd.  All  this  time 
Lord  hed  ben  watchin'  from  behind  a  statute. 
'Hen  the  girl  run  away  to  tell  her  pap  about  it, 
Lord  stepped  out  an'  faced  Reginal'. 

"  He  sayd,  '  One  of  us  must  die.'  With  that 
he  catched  Deeverox  be  the  th'oat  an'  tried  to 
push  him  off  the  terrace.  They  was  a  clean  drop 
o'  fifty  foot  there,  with  runnin*  water  at  the  bot- 
tom. Reginal'  was  quick  an'  grabbed  his  foe 
'round  the  waist.  Back'ard  an'  for'a'd  they 
writhed,  the  paper  sayd,  twistin*  an*  cursin'.  Now 
they  was  on  the  edge  o'  the  precipice,  an'  Alice 
Fairfax,  runnin'  to  meet  her  loved  one,  ez  the 
article  explained,  seen  dimly  outlined  in  the  glare 
o'  the  castel  lights  the  black  figures  o'  the  cousins 
ez  they'  fought  o'er  the  terrace  of  death.  She  was 
spelled.  Sudden  the  one  Desmon  hurled  the 
other  Desmon  from  him.  They  was  an  awful  cry 


A  Piece  in  the  Paper.  253 

ez   the   black   thing  toppled  over  the  edge,   the 
paper  sayd." 

The  Loafer  put  his  hand  in  his  coat-pocket  and 
brought  it  forth  full  of  crushed  tobacco  leaves, 
with  which  he  filled  his  pipe.  Then  he  lighted  a 
match  and  began  smoking. 

"  Well  ?  "  cried  the  men  on  the  bench  in  unison. 

"  Well?  "  repeated  the  Loafer. 

"  Which  Desmon  was  it  ? "  asked  the  Tin- 
smith. 

"  That's  jest  where  I'm  stumped,"  was  the  re 
ply.  "  That's  jest  what's  ben  puzzlin'  me,  too. 
Ye  see  that  page  hed  ben  tore  out  an' " 

"  Mighty  souls !  "  gasped  the  Patriarch. 

"  Did  ye  look  fer  it  ?  "  asked  the  Miller,  rising 
and  moving  toward  the  door. 

"  Well  of  course  I  looked.  D'ye  s'pose  I  ain't 
ez  anxious  ez  you  to  know  which  Desmon  was 
kilt  ?  " 

"  What  does  you  mean  be  gittin'  us  anxious," 
yelled  the  old  man.  "  Why  don't  ye  keep  your 
troubles  to  yourself  'stead  o'  unloadin'  em  on 
other  folks?" 

"  Don't  blame  me  that  'ay,"  said  the  Loafer.  "  I 
done  the  best  I  could.  I  looked  all  over  the 
store  fer  that  page.  I  didn't  git  no  sleep  last 
night  jest  from  thinkin'  what  become  of  it.  Now 
I  mind  that  last  Soturday  I  seen  a  felly  from 
Raccoon  Walley  carry  it  off  wrapped  'round  a 
pound  o'  sugar.  I  done  the  best  I  could  fer  ye." 


254  The  Chronic  Loafer. 

The  Teacher  arose  and  walked  to  the  end  of 
the  porch.  Here  he  wheeled  about  and  faced  the 
company,  stretching  his  legs  wide  apart,  throwing 
out  his  chest  and  snapping  his  suspenders  with  his 
thumbs. 

"  You  should  never  begin  a  story  if  you  can't 
tell  it  to  the  end,"  he  said.  "  I  might  as  well  teach 
my  scholars  how  to  add  only  half  down  a  column 
of  figures." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Patriarch,  "  I  would  like  to 
know  most  a  mighty  well  which  o'  them  Desmon 
boys  was  kilt.  But  I'm  too  ole  to  chase  a  pound 
o'  sugar  nine  mile  to  Raccoon  Walley  to  find  out. 
They  are  terrible  things,  these  struggles  caused  be 
onrastless  human  passions.  This  here  petickler 
story  is  all  the  more  terrible  because  them  boys 
was  cousins.  While  we  do  all  feel  a  bit  put  out 
at  not  knowin'  which  of  'em  licked,  we've  at  least 
learned  somethin'  'bout  how  they  lives  in  Eng- 
lan*.  An'  it  should  teach  us  a  lesson  o'  thank- 
fulness that  we  was  born  an'  raised  in  a  walley 
where  folks  is  sensible — that  is  most  of  'em." 


THE  GIFT  BOOK  OF  THE  SEASON 

The  Book  of  Sport 

Written  by  the  following  Experts  : 

CoL  John  Jacob  Astor  H.  H.  Hunnewell,  Jr. 

Oliver  H.  P.  Belmont  Eustace  H.  Miles 

Foxhall  Keene  T.  Suffren  Tailer 

John  E.  Cowdin  Edward  La  Montague,  Sr. 

Miss  Ruth  Underbill  Malcolm  D.  Whitman 

Miss  Beatrix  Hoyt  Holcombe  Ward 

Herbert  M.  Harriman  J.  Parmly  Paret 

Findlay  S.  Douglas  Ralph  N.  EUi* 

H.  L.  Herbert  Albert  C.  Bostwick 

Lawrence  M.  Stockton  Herman  B.  Duryea 

George  Richmond  Fearing,  Jr.  W.  P.  Stephens 
Irving  Cox 


"Unique  and  badly  needed." — CASPAR  WHITNEY. 

"  An  American  Badminton.  Superbly  done.  Author- 
itative."— Boston  Herald. 

"  There  has  never  been  anything  like  this  galaxy  of  stars 
in  the  realms  of  amateur  sporting  literature." 

— New  York  Herald. 

"A  noble  book  of  sports.  Written  for  1'  vers  of  sport  by 
lovers  of  sport.  Only  the  best  of  the  bes,.  has  been  given. 
This  applies  alike  to  articles,  illustrations  and  book-making. 
The  best  possible  book  on  amateur  sport." 

— Evening  Telegraph,  Philadelphia. 

For  descriptive  circulars,   sample  pages,   etc.t   address 

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LORDS  °TFHE  NORTH 

By  A.   C.    LAUT 
A  STRONG   HISTORICAL   NOVEL 


J  ORDS  OF  THE  NORTH  is  a  thrilling  romance 
M ^  dealing  with  the  rivalries  and  intrigues  of  The  Ancient 
and  Honorable  Hudson's  Bay  and  the  North-West 
Companies  for  the  supremacy  of  the  fur  trade  in  the 
Great  North.  It  is  a  story  of  life  in  the  open ;  of 
pioneers  and  trappers.  The  life  of  the  fur  traders  in 
Canada  is  graphically  depicted.  The  struggles  of  the  Selkirk 
settlers  and  the  intrigues  which  made  the  life  of  the  two  great 
fur  trading  companies  so  full  of  romantic  interest,  are  here 
laid  bare.  Francis  Parkman  and  other  historians  havr 
written  of  the  discovery  and  colonization  of  this  part  of  our 
great  North  American  continent,  but  no  novel  has  appeared 
so  full  of  life  and  vivid  interest  as  Lords  of  the  North. 
Much  valuable  information  has  been  obtained  from  old  docu- 
ments and  the  records  of  the  rival  companies  which  wielded 
unlimited  power  over  a  vast  extent  of  our  country.  The 
style  is  admirable,  and  the  descriptions  of  an  untamed  conti- 
nent, of  vast  forest  wastes,  rivers,  lakes  and  prairies,  will 
place  this  book  among  the  foremost  historical  novels  of  the 
present  day.  The  struggles  of  the  English  for  supremacy, 
the  capturing  of  frontier  posts  and  forts,  and  the  life  of  trader 
and  trapper  are  pictured  with  a  master's  hand.  Besides 
being  vastly  interesting,  Lords  of  the  North  is  a  book  of  his- 
torical  value.  Cloth,  8vo.  $I.5O 

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The 

Ordeal    of 
Elizabeth 

FRONTISPIECE   BY 

ALLAN     GILBERT 

Ornamental    Cloth,     Gilt    Top,     $>1.5O 
*   * 

The   Story   of  an    American    Elizabeth 

* 

This  vital  love  story  will  force  every  woman 
who  reads  the  book  to  form  an  opinion  of 
what  she  would  have  done  if  subjected  to  the 
same  ordeal. 

A  Vivid  Picture  of  Social  Life  in  New  York. 

A  powerful  love  story,  full  of  human  inter- 
est and  deep  sympathy. 

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**  We     -were     Strangers    and     tHey    tooK    \aa    in." 

The  Van  Dwellers 

A.    STRENUOUS      QUEST    FOR    A    HOME 


ALBERT    BIGELOW 

Author  of  "  TKe    Dread    Line  " 

To  THOSE  WHO  HAVE  LIVED  IN  FLATS 

To  THOSE  WHO  ARE  LIVING  IN  FLATS,  AND 

To  THOSE  WHO  ARE  THINKING  OF  LIVING  IN  FLATS 

Every  one  wall  enjoy  the  delicious  humor  in  this  account 
ol  a  pursuit  of  the  Ideal  Home.     The  agonizing  compli- 
cations that  arose  between  Landlord,  Janitor,  Moving 
Man  and  the  Little  Family  are  limitless. 
Only    tKe    income  of  tHe    searcHers   is  limited. 


.A.    boon,   to    appeal   to    every    one,  wHetHer 
afflicted  witH  liKe  troubles  or  not. 


Illustrated.  ClotH,   75c. 

"Very  cKeap — considering  wHat  tH« 
experience  cost. 


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The 

Great  White  Way 

Ornamental  Cloth  Cover,  Gilt  Top,  $1.5O 

A  RECORD  OF  AN  UNUSUAL  VOYAGE  OF  DISCOVERY,  AND  SOME 
ROMANTIC  LOVE  AFFAIRS  AMID  STRANGE  SURROUNDINGS 

The  whole  recounted  by  one  NICHOLAS  CHASE,  promoter  of 
the  expedition,  whose  reports  have  been  arranged  for 
publication  by  ALBERT  BIGELOW  PAINE, 
author  of  "The  Van  Dwellers"  "The  Bread  Line" 
etc.  Drawings  by  BERNARD  J.  ROSENMEYER.  Sketches 
by  CHAUNCEY  GALE,  and  map»,  etc.,  from  MR.  CHASE'S 
note  book. 

A    Romance    of    tHe    Farthest    SovitK 

A  THRILLING    ACCOUNT  OF  ADVENTURE 
AND  EXPLORATION  AT  THE   SOUTH   POLE 


"  THE  GREAT  WHITE  WAY  is  the  best  thing  of  the  sort 

I've  seen  since  «  Gulliver's  Travels.1 
"  It  is  far  more  entertaining  than  any  account  of  Ant- Arctic 

discovery  given  to  the  world  heretofore,  and  I'll  venture 

the  opinion  that  it  is  fully  as  correct  in  scientific  research. 

Moreover,  the  story  will  fetch  all  who  have  felt  the 

*  hug  of  the  bear. ' 

Very  truly  yours, 

JOSHUA    SLOCUM, 

Mariner." 
ALBERT  BIGELOW  PAINE, 

Voyager. 

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NORTH 

But  One  Verdict  EAST 

SOUTH 


THE 
CHRONIC       NE"ON  LLOYD 

^ 
LO-A.FHIV  8vo.  ClotH,  $1.25 


OutlooK,     New    TTorK 

New  «<A  new  American  humorist.      The   stories  have  the  point  and  dry 

YorK    force  found  in  those  told  by  the  late  lamented  Da-vid  Harum." 

San     Francisco    Argonaut 

Cal.  "Will  bring  a  smile  when  it  is  read  a  second  or  third  time." 

Ne-w     Orleans    Picayune 

La.  "Racy  with  wisdom  and  humor." 

Chicago    Inter-Ocean 

IU8  "A  book  full  of  good  laughs,  and  will  be  found  a  sure  specific  for  the 

blues." 

Omaha    "World    Herald 
Neb.  "The  reader  will  love  him." 

North     American,     Philadelphia 

_  "Great  natural  humor  and  charm.      In  this  story  aionc  Mr.  Lloyd 

5s  deserving  of  rank  up-front  among  the  American  humorists. ' ' 

Portland    Transcript 

.-  "A  cheerful  companion.     The  reviewer  has  enjoyed  it  In  a  month 

when  books  to  be  read  have  been  many  and  the  time  precious." 

Denver    Pvepublican 

"Nelson  Lloyd  is  to  be  hailed  as  a  Columbus.     There  isn't  a  story  in 
the  book   that  isn't  first-class  fun,  and  there's  no  reason  why  The  Chronic 
Col     Loafer  should  not  be  placed  in  the  gallery  of  American  celebrities  beside  the 
popular  and  philosophical  Mr.  DooleyC* 

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DROME  and 
DREAMER 


By    NELSON    LLOYD 
Author  of  "The  Chronic  Loafer" 

AN     AMERICAN      LOVE     STORY 

Illustrated,   ClotH,  8vo,   $1.5O 


"  '  A  Drone  and  A  Dreamer  '  recalls  the  maxim  of  La 
Bruycre  :  '  When  the  reading  of  a  book  elevates  the  mind  and 
inspires  noble  sentiments,  do  not  seek  for  another  rule  by  which 
to  judge  the  work.  It  is  good  and  made  by  the  hand  of  a 
workman. '  One  of  the  cleverest  and  most  fascinating  stories, 
all  too  brief,  that  it  has  ever  been  my  pleasure  to  read." 

— WALT.  McDouGALL,  in  North  American. 

"  Capitally  told.     The  whole  story  is  rich  in  humor." 

— Outlook. 

"The  most  delightfully  original  offering  of  the  year." 

— New  York  World. 

"  A  story  that  every  one  can  enjoy." — New  York  Press. 

' '  At  once  and  unreservedly  we  acknowledge  the  singu- 
lar merits  of  this  clever  romance." 

— New  York  Times  Saturday  Review, 

"  Occasionally  across  the  weary  wastes  of  contemporary 
fiction — erotic,  neurotic,  tommyroric  or  would-be  historical, 
— comes  a  breath  from  some  far,  sweet  land  of  cleanness  and 
beauty.  Such  a  story  is  'A  Drone  and  A  Dreamer.'  It  is 
difficult  to  conceive  of  anything  more  charming  and  delight- 
ful than  this  book." — Chicago  Evening  Post. 

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LACHMI 


MICHAEL    WHITE 

Ornamental    ClotK    Cover,    $1.5O 
r\illy     Illustrated 


A  Strong  Historical  Novel 

Dealing  with  the  Sepoy  Rebellion 

* 

A  story  founded  upon  the  struggle  of  the 
famous  Princess  of  India,  Lachmi  Bai,  to 
recover  her  possessions  from  the  English. 

The  novel  shows  her  in  the  role  of  The 
Jeanne  d*  Arc  of  India,  depicting  with  masterly 
skill  the  brains,  unceasing  energy  and  indomi- 
table courage  which  enabled  her  to  rouse  the 
native  princes  to  strike  a  blow  for  freedom. 
Her  beauty,  woman's  wit  and  earnestness  of 
purpose,  all  make  her  a  most  fascinating  hero- 
ine, both  in  romance  and  history. 

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Two  SIDES 

\ 

OF  A  QUESTION 

Life  from  a  Woman's  Point  of  View 

BY 

MAY    SINCLAIR 

ClotH  $1.50 

A  BOOK   TO   READ,    THINK 
OVER     AND     DISCUSS 


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edge of  human  interest  it  displays  are  altogether  exceptional. 

—  The  Bookman. 

"The   characters  are  irresistible.      The  book  should  be 
read."  —  St.  James  Gazette. 

"This  book  belongs  to  a  high  order  of  imaginative  fiction, 
based  on  the  essential  realities  of  life."  —  Athenaeum. 


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PARLOUS  TIMES 

DAVID  DWIGHT  WELLS 
A      Novel      of      Modern      Diplomacy 

BY   THE   AUTHOR   OF 

"Her  Ladyship's  Elephant." 


Parlous  Times  is  a  society  novel  of  to-day. 
The  scene  is  laid  in  London  in  diplomatic 
circles.  The  romance  was  suggested  by  experi- 
ences of  the  author  while  Second  Secretary  of 
the  United  States  Embassy  at  the  Court  of  St. 
James.  It  is  a  charming  love  story,  with  a 
theme  both  fresh  and  attractive.  The  plot  is 
strong,  and  the  action  of  the  book  goes  with  a 
rush.  Political  conspiracy  and  the  secrets  of 
an  old  tower  of  a  castle  in  Sussex  play  an  im- 
portant part  in  the  novel.  The  story  is  a 
bright  comedy,  full  of  humor,  flashes  of  keen 
wit  and  clever  epigram.  It  will  hold  the 
reader's  attention  from  beginning  to  end. 
Altogether  it  is  a  good  story  exceedingly  well 
told,  and  promises  to  be  Mr.  Wells'  most  suc- 

cessful novel. 

Cloth,  8vo,  $I.5O 

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TRINITY  BELLS 

By    AME.LIA    E.    BARR. 

Cloth,    Svo,    &!.SO 
Sixteen  full-page  Illustrations  loy  Rel?-e» 


"One      of     the      best      stories     ever     -written     by 
Amelia    E..    Barr." 

ST.    LOUIS    GLOBE   DEMOCRAT. 

CHRISTIAN   NATION  t 

"Without  question  the  best  book  for  young  girls  which  has  appeared 
for  years.  Besides  being  interesting  it  has  an  educational  value,  as  it  is  good 
supplementary  reading  to  a  school  course  in  history.  Mrs.  Barr  is  ct  her 
best  in  Trinity  Sells.  We  trust  that  every  library  will  soon  have  a  copy  on 
its  shelves." 

LITERARY   WORLD.    Boston  • 

"In  idea  and  execution  this  is  one  of  the  author's  best  works,  and 
well  worthy  of  its  superb  dress  of  silver  and  green." 

THE  BOOR-BUYER  t 

"The  name  is  happily  chosen  for  this  romantic  story  of  life  in  New 
York  during  the  period  preceding  the  war  with  the  Mediterranean  corsairs, 
for  the  bells  of  Old  Trinity  ring  out  an  accompaniment  to  the  changing  for- 
tunes of  the  lovable  little  Dutch  heroine.  There  is  a  charm  in  Mrs.  Barr' s 
work  that  goes  directly  to  the  reader's  heart,  while  her  skill  in  the  delinea- 
tion of  character  is  no  less  effective  in  its  appeal  to  the  mind.  Trinity  Belli 
is  an  excellent  minor  historical  romance,  worthy  of  a  permanent  place  in  a 
young  girl's  library." 

BOSTON   TIMES, 

"No  more  agreeable  story  of  life  in  the  early  days  of  our  country  has 
ever  been  written.  Trinity  Bells  shows  Mrs,  Barr's  charm  and  power  in 
all  its  force  and  beauty.  Besides  its  historical  value,  it  is  vastly  entertaining." 

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WHITE     BUTTERFLIES 

By    KATE    UPSON    CLARK. 

ClotK.  Rvo,  $1.25 


MARY  E. 

"The  stories  are  marvellous.  I  fee!  as  though  1  were  constantly  fin  J~ 
ing  another  vein  of  gold.  The  dramatic  power  in  some  of  them  has  never 
been  excelled  in  any  American  short  stories.  'Solly'  it  a  masterpiece." 

ANSON    JUDD    UPSON,    D.D..     L.L.D.. 

CKanoellor  of  TK«  Univ.   Of  New  YorK 
"Your  stories  are  just  what  I  like.      Your  characters  are  exceedingly 
vivid.     I  cannot  too   warmly  commend  the  simplicity  and  purity  of  your 
Kyle,  the  vividness  of  your  characters  and  the  general  construction  of  the 
itories." 

MARGARET  E.  SANGSTER 

/  "I:  seems  to  me  that  no  stories,  long  or  short,  have  appeared,  which 
illustrate  more  perfectly  than  these  what  we  have  in  mind  when  we  use,  in 
a  literary  sense,  the  term  'Americanism.  '  The  atmosphere  of  these  beau- 
tiful tales  is  truthfully  varied  to  suit  every  locality  described,  but  everywhere 
the  standards  and  ideals  are  set  alike.  A  sound,  healthful  Americanism, 
just  what  we  wish  the  word  to  mean,  pervades  them  all," 

St.   Loxais  Globe-Democrat 
"It  is  not  art  ;  it  is  genius." 

THe  Nation 

"It  is  unusual  to  find  so  wide  a  range  of  scene  and  person  in  one  col- 
lection of  short  stories.  In  each  of  these  a  strongly  dramatic  incident  is  in- 
troduced, ringing  both  true  and  real." 

Mail  and  Express 

"Many  a  nugget  of  wisdom,  many  a  bit  of  homely  philosophy,  and 
enough  humor  to  leaven  the  whole.  '  ' 

"Western    Club    "Woman 

"Full  of  exquisite  pathos,  a  tenderness,  a  delicacy  of  touch  not  often 
equalled.  The  art  is  perfect." 

Chicago    Eventing   Post 

"Mrs.  Clark  is  entitled  to  the  thanks  of  a  reading  public." 


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The   Colburn   Prize 

By  GABRIELLE  E.  JACttSON 

ILLUSTRATED  BY  MABEL  HUMPHREY 

Ornamental    ClotH    Cover,    $1.OO 

*       *       * 

Mrs.  Jackson  needs  no  introduction.  Her  stories  in 
the  St.  Nicholas  magazine  have  won  for  her  a  warm  place 
in  the  hearts  of  the  girls  throughout  the  country.  The 
Colburn  Prize  is  a  charming  story  of  mutual  sacrifice  by  two 
school  friends,  and  is  the  last  and  best  work  of  the  gifted 
author  of  Denis e  and  Ned  Toddles  and  Pretty  Polly  Perkins. 
Nine  full-page  illustrations  add  to  the  charm  of  this  ex- 
quisite gift  book  which  Mrs.  Jackson  has  dedicated  to  THE 
SCHOOL  GIRLS  THROUGHOUT  THE  LAND. 


THE  BILLY  STORIES 

By  EVA   LOVETT 

Ornamental  ClotH  Cover,    $1.OO 

Charmingly  Illustrated  -with  Half  -Tones  and  Line  Cuts 


Billy  in  the  role  of  Pirate,  Author,  Rough  Rider,  etc., 
will  be  keenly  enjoyed  by  every  boy  and  girl,  and  also  by 
the  older  people  who  read  this  book. 

A.  Humorous  and  most  amusing  set  of  stories 
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PAUL  BOURGET 

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A    Novel    of    Society    in    Paris    and    London 

A  fascinating  love  story.  The  character  studies  contained 
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STEPPING 


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